


Crime and Punishment

by melolcatsi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abusive Dursley Family (Harry Potter), Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Family Feels, Gen, Good Severus Snape, Harry Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Harry Potter-centric, Hurt/Comfort, Mentor Severus Snape, Parent Severus Snape, Parent-Child Relationship, Severitus | Severus Snape is Harry Potter's Parent, Severus Snape Adopts Harry Potter, Severus Snape Being a Bastard, Severus Snape Has a Heart, Severus Snape-centric, Sevitus, Vulnerable Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:40:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 157,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24102232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melolcatsi/pseuds/melolcatsi
Summary: Harry is accused of burglary. The Dursleys leave him to rot. Dumbledore sends Snape to remedy the situation. Harry finds himself in the care of an irate Snape. Not slash, gen-fic w/ focus on Sevitus relationship. Angst galore. Warnings: coarse and suggestive language, mentions of abuse/neglect. Un-betaed and un-Britpicked.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Severus Snape, Remus Lupin & Harry Potter, Sirius Black & Harry Potter
Comments: 378
Kudos: 1846
Collections: Behold the Sacred Texts, Our Harry Potter, Qualis Ficta, Reasons I don't have a Life :), To remember and cherish, best fanfics ive read, literally amazing i could read these over and over





	1. Chapter 1

It was bound to happen sometime. Harry had been noticing that summer that Dudley seemed to be growing more and more reckless, and with that recklessness, so too grew his cruelty toward Harry. The glorious return of Harry Hunting had been heralded in by a chase and a beating the first day he’d returned to Privet Drive. It was late June now, and Harry still sported some of the bruises from that incident. Layered beneath fresher bruises, of course.

And it wasn’t just the beatings. No, now Dudley’s little clutch of sadists liked to smoke and drink and commit minor misdemeanors and play the game of trying to pin them on Harry. Harry had already been blamed for vandalizing one of the neighbor’s mailboxes and shaving another neighbor’s cat. Yes, Dudley and company found such things to be just hilarious. 

Vernon and Petunia, less so. There had been a lot of missed meals as a result. 

Harry hadn’t really paid attention to how dangerously these incidents were escalating, or realized that eventually the crime pinned on him would be more than a destructive prank. He was still too wrapped up in the nightmares from the graveyard, nightmares of Cedric, the lingering sensation of Crucio. 

Stupid of him, really. He’d known better for years, that he had to stay on his toes when he was home. Even stupider of him, probably, to let himself become so distracted in the little park down the road. Especially now that Voldemort was back in the flesh. 

But really, who needed Voldemort? Certainly not Harry. No, Dudley was already so good at making his life a living hell. 

And this, this was just the icing on that delightful layer-cake of misery. 

Harry had been dangling listlessly in one of the swings at the park, toes barely brushing the ground, his head slumped forward. He’d not wanted to be home, unable to stand so much as another day in the special little cell the Dursleys called his room. So he’d gone down the way for a little fresh air. 

“There he is!” Piers Polkiss’ voice drew him from his reverie. His head jerked up, only to see the lanky boy barreling toward him, rat-like face twisted in an expression of unholy glee. He was followed by a huffing Dudley, a few other miscreants who tended to fall into Dudley’s orbit and, rather surprisingly, a bobby. 

Harry knew instinctively that he should run. He also knew that it probably wouldn’t do him any good. But beyond what he knew, beyond the adrenaline that began coursing through his veins, Harry was tired. So tired. Maybe it was the nightmares, maybe it was the constant dread that seemed to weigh him down. Maybe it was the feeling of hopelessness and impotence that swamped him whenever he was about to face another injustice in this godforsaken little neighborhood. 

Whatever it was, he stayed put on his swing. He winced when he was shoved to the ground by Piers, when his hands were yanked viciously behind him, when he was dragged to his feet to face the bobby, a portly man with a stern face and a salt-and-pepper moustache. 

Dudley was grinning maliciously, his little piggy eyes glinting like Piers’. “That’s the boy,” he declared. “That’s the one we saw running off. He probably already hid everything he stole.”

The officer frowned disapprovingly. “I know you. You’re that boy they brought in for vandalism a few weeks back. Shaved that poor cat, too, didn’t you, you little wretch?”

“He goes to St. Brutus’,” Piers offered helpfully. “For criminal boys. We tried to keep an eye on him, sir, but he must have slipped around us. Poor Mrs. Applewhite.” The boy shook his head in mock sympathy.

“Anything to say for yourself, boy?” the officer barked, snatching him by the shoulder. 

“I didn’t do anything,” Harry mumbled sulkily. Didn’t matter, though, he thought bitterly. The man’s mind was clearly made, and the evidence was already stacked against him. Though it would be nice to know what he was accused of doing. 

“Oh, so you mean to tell me that these five nice boys chased you halfway across the neighborhood for no good reason? That they didn’t see you breaking into Mrs. Applegate’s home?”

Harry would have said ‘no’, but he really couldn’t imagine it making any difference. So instead he shrugged.

That seemed to be enough of an admission of guilt for the officer. “Well, I guess we’ll have to see if a trip down to the station doesn’t cure you. Maybe a few nights in a holding cell will set you straight, eh?”

Harry was too far gone into his misery to contemplate that. He figured the man was just trying to scare him straight. Likely he’d be dropped off on Vernon and Petunia’s doorstep with a few stern words and a juvenile court date. Last time he’d been sentenced to community service for a week and a half. That hadn’t been his real punishment, of course. His real punishment had been putting up with his aunt and uncle. 

At least when he was out digging ditches and picking up litter, they fed him lunch. It almost felt like a reward in a way. And of course, if they hadn’t fed him…. Harry didn’t like to think how that would have turned out. His aunt and uncle had certainly been disgusted enough with him to let him practically starve. Though Harry always believed that they wouldn’t let it go too far. 

Wouldn’t want their pristine home marred by the lifeless corpse of their nephew, he thought bitterly. 

The trouble was, though, that the officer didn’t take him back to Number 4 Privet Drive. Harry was shoved unceremoniously into the back seat for a few minutes while the officer filled out his report, listening to Dudley and the others as they described how Harry had looked emerging from Number 9 Privet Drive, pockets full of quid and stolen jewelry. It all sounded a little too cinematic to Harry, but no one had asked his opinion, or even for his version of events. 

Still dazed, all Harry could think as they peeled off down the road, presumably toward the promised holding cell, was that he would probably get three square meals and regular outdoor time there. Maybe he should have committed a felony much sooner. 

XXXXX

“Uncle Vernon, please, you have to—“

“I don’t have to do anything, boy, and don’t you forget it! You’ll be lucky if we let you back into the house after this, you ungrateful little swine. Common hooligan, that’s what you are, worse than your drunkard father. A laze-about, he was, but at least he never stole like a dirty rotten criminal! Well, you can rot down there for all I care, and good riddance.”

“Uncle Vernon,” Harry cried, “you have to come get me! Volde—you know, him! He’ll kill me, they told you that!”

The officer assigned to keep watch over him throughout this phone call gave a snort of amusement. 

“Maybe you didn’t hear me,” came his uncle’s gruff voice. “Good riddance. No less than you deserve, if you ask me. If your kind’s worried about you so much, boy, they should get their lazy arses down there and bail you out themselves, shouldn’t they?” And with that the line went dead. 

Harry thrust his head back in exasperation. Not good. This was not, not good. At first he’d thought that this might be a pleasant stay. Ha. Yes, because jail was preferable to Privet Drive at this point. He might even gain back the stone he’d lost since the start of the summer. 

That, of course, was before he’d had time to fully consider his situation. Wandless, in a Muggle jail cell, with no way of contacting Dumbledore or anyone, practically a sitting duck for the newly arisen Voldemort. Oh, and it wasn’t as if the dark wizard was in a froth or anything, was it? It wasn’t like Harry, a teenaged whelp who’d been disadvantaged fifteen or so to one, had shown the powerful wizard up. It wasn’t like Voldemort was ready to reap his vengeance on Harry for thwarting him yet again. 

Oh, but wait, he was. 

If Harry had thought he could get away with it, he would have asked to exchange his single phone call for an owl. 

He begged for another phone call. He tried to explain just how important it was that his relatives come get him as soon as possible, but hell, he figured that everyone at the station had heard every story in the book from the scared young delinquents brought in off the streets. They remained unmoved, and so Harry found himself back in the holding cell with two other boys, one skinny and pale and shaking, the other pudgy and passed out against the back wall. 

Harry sighed and collapsed back on the hard wooden bench protruding from the wall. He could still hope that someone was monitoring him at home, that someone would tell Dumbledore what had happened, that the headmaster would come through for him before something really awful happened. He really didn’t want to die here, wandless and alone and sporting a hideous orange jumper. 

At least the jumper fit, unlike his other clothes.

XXXXX

At first Harry was sure it was just another nightmare, only slightly more disturbing than the previous one of Cedric’s body and green light and kill the spare. 

He was back in the holding cell, and he could hear voices down the hall, both familiar. The one because he could remember the low, gruff voice of the officer assigned to this cell block, and the other because four years of potions classes had caused it to seep into his brain like poison, embedding it so deeply that he could never forget it, no matter how hard he tried. 

Wake up, he ordered himself. Wake up right now. He wouldn’t be here. It makes no sense for him to be here. There are loads of better people to come get you. Remus would come. Unless it’s the full moon. What phase was the moon at anyway?

He pinched himself for good measure, but all he got for that was a small patch of viciously bruised skin. 

And then he was there, standing alongside the warden, dressed in dark muggle clothes (though Harry could still see the outline of those billowing teaching robes the man favored). And, as per usual, his face was pinched with disgust, as if he scented something particularly foul. 

“And you said you were....” The warden stared at Snape expectantly. 

“The boy’s father.”

Harry’s blood ran cold. Like hell. Like hell. “He’s not,” Harry protested quickly. “I don’t even know him—“ Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

The warden arched a brow at Harry. Snape just rolled his eyes. 

“And how would you know we were speaking of you?” Snape inquired coolly, his voice too soft. It sent unpleasant shivers down Harry’s spine. “If, indeed, we are perfect strangers?”

Harry glanced at the two other boys, grasping desperately at any passing thought, anything to get himself out of this massive blunder. He wasn’t going anywhere with Snape, he wasn’t. Dumbledore could come fetch him himself. “I live at Number Four Privet Drive,” Harry asserted, though his voice trembled. “In Little Whinging. He doesn’t. My guardians—“

“Ah, Harry, don’t try to twist things,” Snape cut him off. His words were so gentle and measured, though his eyes glittered with a terrible darkness. 

Harry took an instinctive step back. 

“I’ve told them all about our unfortunate arrangements. How I’m often abroad, traveling for work. How your mother died. How you’ve had to live with your aunt and uncle, since we’ve had so many behavioral issues while traveling in the past.” Snape shook his head slightly, as if in sadness. “I’ve tried to do my best by the boy, but I’m afraid it has never been enough. He has a willful spirit, and precious little brains. Regrettable combination.”

“Well, everything cleared on our end. He’s all yours,” the warden announced, drawing out his set of keys. 

Harry took another step back, willing himself to think. He didn’t like Snape. Snape hated him. And worse, he wasn’t all that sure that the Potions Master wouldn’t just turn him over to Voldemort. God, the man might even do it just for spite. And if not…. Harry shuddered just to think what the man might do with him. All alone during the summer, with no witnesses… no, definitely not good.

There might not be a body left to bury by the time the man was done. 

“I want to stay here.” 

Both the warden and Snape turned to him, startled. Snape’s eyebrows had practically disappeared into his greasy dark hair. 

“I beg your pardon?” Snape hissed. 

Harry straightened his spine, squared his shoulders, and did his best to stare Snape down. “I don’t want to go with you. I’ll stay right here, thanks, until my real family comes to get me.”

Snape turned to the warden, the motions to calm, too slow, to bode well for Harry. “I’d like a private word with my… son. Is there somewhere we might speak? An interrogation room, perhaps?”

The warden scratched at the back of his head. “Bit unconventional, that. But I suppose we might have one free.”

Harry’s breath hitched. “No,” he spat, “I—I don’t want to be alone with him—“

Snape smirked cruelly. “Likely because I told him that he’s never too old for a trip over my knee,” he confided smoothly to the warden. 

The grey-haired man snorted in commiseration. 

Harry, however, could feel himself slowly turning crimson with mortification. Had Snape just implied…? He couldn’t do that, could he? 

While Harry grappled with that offhanded comment, reeling with terror at the thought of all that Snape could do to him, the warden unlocked the door. And Snape’s heavy, bruising grip latched onto Harry’s upper arm and dragged him out of the holding cell and down the hall after the warden. 

Snape shoved Harry unceremoniously into the little interrogation cell the warden held open for him. 

“Ten minutes,” the warden informed Snape, who nodded curtly. 

Snape’s wand was out in a dark flash, as soon as the door closed behind the warden. Harry felt the familiar wash of privacy wards, and the thought of no sound leaving that little room made Harry’s blood run cold. 

Automatically, he backed himself up against the wall, running through arguments in his head to keep Snape from doing anything too horrible to him. Dumbledore will know. They’ll send you to Azkaban. Um. It’s wrong to kill your students. Damn, was that it? 

Hell, the Azkaban argument wasn’t likely valid, with the way the Ministry had been behaving lately. Harry was a pariah after claiming that Voldemort was back. His death would be awfully convenient for them, convenient enough that they might overlook the suspicious circumstances surrounding it. 

“I will not repeat myself, Potter, so listen.” 

Harry flinched at the utter loathing behind those words. 

“We are leaving here, regardless of what temper tantrums you throw, regardless of how entitled you feel to special treatment. I was ordered to retrieve you, and that is precisely what I intend to do.” The man stalked forward swiftly, his long strides carrying him directly in front of Harry. 

He pressed close enough that Harry could feel the man’s body heat, could practically count each one of the man’s crooked teeth. It would have been easy enough, since they were all displayed in a full-snarl. Snape bent his head down, so that his face was just inches from Harry’s, his dark, hateful eyes boring relentlessly into Harry’s. 

“You are mine for the rest of the summer. That was one of the conditions for this little retrieval service. Since your family is so incapable of stopping your descent into utter depravity, I will be taking over your discipline. There will be no clemency, I assure you. You will regret this shameful little stunt, boy, with every iota of your being.”

The fear was turning to rage in his stomach, churning like some living beast clawing to get free. He ground his teeth together, willing himself to rein in his temper. It wasn’t fair, though. The Dursleys treating him like a filthy stray, that he could handle. Dudley framing him for breaking and entering for his own sadistic amusement and nothing else, that he could handle. 

His bastard of a potions professor exorcising his vitriol on him for the rest of the summer, berating and punishing him for a crime he hadn’t committed? No, that was too much. He would rather the man just give him over to Voldemort and be done with it. 

“There’s nothing to punish me for, because—“

“Don’t say it, Potter.”

“I didn’t—“

“Oh, don’t you dare utter that drivel to me. Your caretakers may be thick, but I certainly am not.” 

Harry could feel the man’s hot breath against his face. He closed his eyes, trying to imagine himself anywhere but here—here being, of course, the ninth circle of hell. Where was Remus? Where was Sirius? Sure, his godfather was a little unhinged, but he wouldn’t mind that right now if it would get Snape away from him. 

“And do not make the mistake of thinking that your situation cannot get worse, that you have somehow bottomed out now, that you will be so thoroughly punished that I cannot possibly do anything to make it more severe. A life lesson for you, Potter: it can always get worse.”

Case in point, Harry thought, still fighting to get a grip on himself. Why had he ever thought that the Dursleys were the worst possible caretakers? Oh, this was just the universe, punishing Harry Potter for his blasted optimism. Proving him wrong in the worst possible way. 

“Now,” Snape continued in that velvety tone of his, so quiet, so confident. “Let us establish what is about to happen. You and I will emerge from this room, you properly chastised and abashed. I will complete the paperwork needed to release delinquent children, pay your bail, and we will be off. Throughout all of this, you will be the very epitome of ‘seen and not heard’. The only words to pass your lips will be a deferential ‘yes, sir’ or ‘no, sir’. You will follow every instruction I issue to the letter. Because, Mr. Potter, if you do not, I promise you that you will spend the rest of the summer wishing you had never been born.”

Harry’s fists curled tighter at his sides. He very nearly shouted that he already wished he’d never been born, thank you very much, and so that threat, just as when Uncle Vernon uttered it, lacked any real menace for him. But then he remembered his latest epiphany, reinforced by Snape’s blunt words. It can always be worse. And tempting Fate to prove him wrong seemed particularly foolhardy in this instance. 

“Is. That. Clear?” Snape drew out each word deliberately, spitting the consonants out like cherry pits. 

Nothing for it, Harry thought. He’d already made all the wrong moves in front of the warden and others. None of them would think he was anything less than a petulant child and miscreant. He had no wand. Snape was bigger, more powerful, had the law on his side, probably the support of Dumbledore…. Things were not stacking up in Harry’s favor. 

And if he was going to be spending any time with the Potions Master—and boy did it sound like he would—then he’d better not dig himself an even deeper grave. An irate Snape who was convinced he’d burgled some poor old lady’s house, who’d had to bail him out of jail, and who now would have to put up with him until school started was bad enough. 

No use in fighting tooth and nail. Better to just grin and bear it. Not that Harry had to like that fact, of course. 

“Yes, sir,” he muttered sullenly. 

Quick as lightning, Snape snatched him by the ear and tugged on it painfully. “I do not care for the attitude, boy. Correct it. This. Instant.”

Harry forced himself to drag in a shuddery breath, to push back the hurt and anger threatening to boil over. Mustering the softest, most submissive tone he could (his “Uncle Vernon is about to blow a gasket” tone), he repeated, “Yes, sir.”

Snape released him, though he still shot Harry a dark, unpromising glare. The man jerked his head at the door. “After you, Potter.”


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry is welcomed into Snape's loving home.

“He really is going to kill me.”

It was a last-ditch effort, pathetic at best. Harry could hear his own voice trembling as he tried to make his case to the bailiff seated at the desk. Not ten feet away, Snape was filling out boxes, signing acknowledgments, wading through the red tape that would make Harry a free man (boy?) once more. 

“Now, son,” the bailiff began placatingly, “I doubt—“

“No, listen. He’s not really my father. He’s just saying that so he can get me out of here. My parents died when I was little. They were killed by this—uh, this madman, see—and the madman never gave up. I’ve been in hiding, but that madman is still trying to get me, and Snape is going to turn me over to him first chance he gets—“

“Harry.”

By God, it was still awful to hear Snape utter his name like that. His spine stiffened automatically. He felt a large hand close painfully around the back of his neck. 

“What stories have you been telling now?” The words were a parody of fatherly exasperation. Harry cringed. “I apologize. The boy is a pathological liar, always spinning tall tales to get out of scrapes. I’m afraid his relatives have been far too indulgent with him thus far.” The hand tightened further, until Harry was certain he would have a bruise later. “An oversight I will be certain to address. As Harry well knows, attempting to wheedle out of a punishment will only make it worse.”

Harry’s knee-jerk response to that threat was to try to tear away from Snape’s grip. The man only tightened his hold, however, one thumb digging painfully into the side of Harry’s neck in warning. 

The bailiff offered Snape a tight smile. “Boy’s just scared,” he explained easily. “We see this a lot. This is the first big offense. First time they cross a line like that most of ‘em panic, get all riled up, can’t stand to face their parents. ‘E’ll calm down quick enough.”

“I’m certain.” Snape passed over a thick packed of papers, all filled out in his own cramped hand. “I believe everything there is in order.”

The bailiff accepted the stack. Harry watched apprehensively, too terrified of what Snape might do to him to speak up again. Instead, he opted to silently pray to whatever deity or deities might be listening for a small mercy—a hitch in this paperwork, say. 

No such luck. The bailiff glanced through quickly and nodded briefly in approval. “Everything seems to be in order. Court date’s set for a month from now. We’ll see you both then, Mr. Potter.”

When Harry turned to Snape, he caught the barest hint of distaste curling the man’s lip. Other than that, his expression remained smooth and unperturbed. “Of course. Have a pleasant day.”

And with that Snape jerked Harry around and started marching him out of the station. Harry’s stomach clenched with dread.

As soon as they were out on the street, Snape bent down so that his lips were next to Harry’s ear. He spoke in an even whisper, but somehow that iron control terrified Harry more than all of Vernon’s blustery yelling. 

“You should know, Potter, that the headmaster’s only stipulation when he agreed to this was that you should be returned at the end of the summer in one piece. I’ve no qualms whatsoever about taking you apart in the meantime, especially considering that you are so very resistant to normal disciplinary measures. We can begin that here and now, if you so choose; you could pitch a royal fit, as you are wont to do, and I, in turn, could transfigure you into something more manageable—a pup with a leash, let us say. Or you can choose to begin your transformation now by following my every directive, thereby showing me that perhaps you recognize, on some level, how idiotic and inexcusable your behavior has been. Which will it be?”

Snape would do it, Harry knew. The man would turn him into a dog and drag him all over Britain to God knew where, kicking at him and snapping orders all the while, yanking at his leash. It would be humiliating and awful, just up Snape’s alley. Hell, the man might even leave him in canine form for a few days. Or weeks. Or months. 

Harry repressed a shudder. No. Sirius might be able to stand living like that, but at least Sirius was (mostly) free. Harry was fairly certain that death would be a better option than life as Snape’s dog, however short that span might be. There was absolutely no way Harry was going to do anything to encourage Snape to follow through with that threat. 

So it was back to his meek Dursley voice. He even hunched his posture a little for good measure. “I’ll behave, sir.” The words tasted like bile on his tongue. 

Harry could practically feel Snape’s lips curling into a sneer. “We shall see.”

XXXXX

Snape Apparated them to London, and from there they made their way to King’s Cross. Harry found the experience severely unsettling, and could scarcely keep himself from vomiting all over the potions master’s shoes. The man had watched impassively, nostrils flared, a disparaging glint in his eyes. He’d said nothing, but Harry could feel the weight of the man’s judgment bearing down on him. 

So Harry had picked himself up and willed his stomach to stop contorting so painfully. And once he’d steadied himself, Snape had caught him by the arm once more and off they went.

Snape kept a glamor cast over himself from the moment they arrived in a back alley; it was a subtle change, but enough to render the man unrecognizable at a glance. Harry assumed one had been cast over him as well, as he’d felt a trickle of cool magic all the way down his spine. Frightening, Harry thought, that Snape could manage a spell like that both wordlessly and wandlessly. 

From King’s Cross, they caught a train. A Muggle train, which Harry thought was odd. Why couldn’t they just Apparate directly to wherever it was Snape was taking him? 

Of course, Harry had enough sense not to ask Snape that question. Or any question. Or look him in the eyes, sit too defiantly, breathe too loudly, or do anything that might in any way stoke the man’s already volatile temper. 

Even with all of Harry’s careful attention to his behavior, he could still feel the tension growing between them with every passing second. It hadn’t been so palpable out in the train station, where the throngs of people and general hubbub had detracted from the strain between the two of them. 

Once they entered into the train, Snape having purchased their tickets without a word to Harry, and found a compartment, that tension grew tenfold. 

Harry settled into his seat across from Snape, eyes on his lap, hands folded tightly and rested lightly against his thighs. He could feel Snape glowering at him, and the disdain roiling out from him in waves. Harry thought that it would have been more comfortable to share the space with an angry Hungarian Horntail. At least he could have fought the dragon. 

It was nearly impossible for Harry to keep his thoughts calm. He was sure he would get no sympathy from Snape if he had a panic attack in public. Likely the professor would believe him to be doing it for sympathy and attention, and would add on to whatever horrendous punishment he already had in mind. So he tried not to think about his trunk, or his wand, or Hedwig, who had at least been out prior to this latest debacle, delivering a letter to Ron. And he tried not to think about how miserable his existence would be for the next two months. 

Instead, he concentrated on grounding himself in the moment. It was a useful technique, one that had gotten him through too many long stretches with the Dursleys. After he’d loosed that snake at the zoo… well, two weeks in his cupboard hadn’t been so bad when he’d let himself think only of what he was doing in the moment. Now I will play with my soldiers, now I will close my eyes and imagine, now I will reread Oliver Twist (the only battered book he’d managed to salvage from his cousin), now I will watch my spiders. One minute at a time, he’d gotten himself through that unpleasant two weeks. 

This would be more of the same. Parcel it out into minutes and he would manage to find the moments of respite, and appreciate them. 

So here, mired in that tense silence, Harry decided to turn his attention completely to the countryside unfolding outside his window. He watched the hills and trees and farms, and noted the livestock grazing out in the pastures. When they reached towns—stops along the way—Harry noted the architecture, especially the old churches, whose steeples rose so beautifully into the sky. He’d always had a fondness for those tall structures. 

And so it was that Harry managed to make it through that long ride without thinking once of wizards or Hogwarts or Snape, even though the man’s menacing presence radiated throughout their entire compartment. 

It grew harder to ignore as time passed. Snape’s anger and Harry’s discomfort combined into a malevolent energy that seemed to rest suspended between them, crackling like static, building with each passing minute toward an inevitable explosion. 

Snape rose to his feet when Cokeworth Mills was announced. Harry stood too, still doing his best to appear completely cowed. Roll over, play dead, hope that Snape’s not as much of a sadistic bastard as he’s always seemed to be. 

The man seized Harry by the upper arm once more (Harry was sure he would have a sizeable bruise there the next day after all of this manhandling) and steered him out into the corridor and toward the nearest exit. The train lurched to a halt, the attendant opened the door, and within seconds Snape was hustling Harry none too gently out onto the platform. 

Harry looked around, desperate for any clues as to where he might be. Where did Snape live, anyway? He’d always assumed that the professor just kept to his dungeon at Hogwarts, bent over his cauldrons all summer, only emerging occasionally for a breath or two of fresh air. Where they were currently hardly fit into his impressions of the man. A dingy little town with rows upon rows of soot-stained brick buildings, permeated by an air of severe neglect. In the distance, twin stacks of what appeared to be an abandoned factory rose into the sky, looming over the shell of a town like malevolent guardians. 

It was too… Muggle. Too sad, too pathetic, for the bitter, overly-confident wizard currently escorting Harry. 

Harry longed to ask where they were, but yet again, he was far too intelligent to provoke his potions master like that. The man was clearly in no mood, and Harry figured that knowing the name of this godawful place would not make it any less miserable or oppressive. 

They made their way down the town’s main street, past those lifeless brick facades, past litter and debris. The streets were dead, hardly a soul in sight, and the whole place had the feeling of a graveyard hanging over it. 

Finally they turned right, onto a street called Spinner’s End, and a few buildings down Snape abruptly jerked them up a cracking walk. A muttered spell opened the door, and Harry found himself thrust unceremoniously inside.

The dust and mustiness of the house was choking. Beyond choking. Harry instinctively drew an arm up to his mouth to guard against the thick clouds that rose in the wake of their violent entry. He looked around, doing his best to assess the dingy interior. The place looked to be abandoned, though a few signs of the previous inhabitants remained. There were two tattered coats hung on hooks in the entryway, and Harry could make out shelves upon shelves of books in the sitting room around the corner. 

What the hell were they doing here? 

Snape slammed the door shut behind them. “You, Potter, disgust me.” The words lashed out like a whip.

Harry cringed back from the sheer amount of venom present in those four words. 

“Countless sacrifices have been made for your safety. Your parents gave their lives so that you might survive them, and how do you repay them? By turning into a thug. By robbing a helpless Muggle woman. And for what? Oh, certainly not the money, you’ve plenty of that. For the thrill of it alone, for the sheer pleasure of defiance. Did it make you feel like a big man, Potter, when you were violating the sanctity of that woman’s home? Did it assuage your boredom?”

Harry clamped down hard on his temper, which was threatening to boil over. He wanted to shout in Snape’s face that he was wrong, that he knew nothing, that he hadn’t even bothered to ask if Harry had really committed the crime he’d been accused of. 

But there was no point in that, he knew. Snape’s mind was made, and in absence of irrefutable evidence to the contrary, nothing would sway him in his conviction that Harry was guilty. So he grit his teeth instead and contented himself with glaring mutinously at the man. 

Snape glared right back, every line of his face announcing his utter loathing for Harry. “Well?” he demanded, his tongue curling hard on the L of the word, stretching it out into two syllables. “I asked a question. I require an answer.”

Harry lost himself in a flash of white-hot anger. “Sod off!”

Snape had his wand out in an instant, the length of dark wood leveled at Harry’s breast. The look on his face was frightening, close to unhinged, the same look he’d worn upon stumbling into the Shrieking Shack to confront Lupin and Sirius just years ago. “I would tread very carefully, Potter,” he warned quietly, “were I you. It would be my pleasure to put you in your place, and I’ve very few constraints as to how I go about that. I can make your next two months a veritable hell.”

Like you won’t regardless, Harry thought bitterly. But he recognized the situation—Snape, wand leveled at him, and him wandless. And Snape was an accomplished wizard; Harry could admit at least that. He had no wish to see what the man might choose to do to him. 

“When an unruly child behaves unacceptably, Potter, they are required to issue an apology to the party they have offended.”

Swallowing back his pride, Harry muttered, “I’m sorry.” The words were hollow and insincere. 

Snape scoffed. “Pathetic. But I suppose that it will have to do.” He lowered his wand a fraction. “Now. Answer my question. Why did you do it?”

Ha. How could he possibly answer that question? He supposed a shrug of the shoulders or a petulant “because I felt like it” wouldn’t get him very far. Truth be told, he couldn’t figure out why Dudley and company had done it either. It wasn’t like any of those kids wanted for anything in their lives. It was likely just as Snape had said, from sheer boredom and for the pleasure of defiance. 

Well, he could answer as truthfully as possible. “I don’t know. Sir.” His tone was still noticeably sullen. He hoped the man wouldn’t demand that he correct that as well. 

It was the wrong answer. “You don’t know,” Snape mocked viciously, his words heated. “You don’t know. Well, allow me to enlighten you on a few points. You have done much more than embarrass yourself and your family, more than mock the sacrifices made for you. Your little stunt has put you in grave danger. Imagine that the headmaster had not received word of your predicament. Imagine that, instead, some of my associates had gotten wind of it. Do you imagine you would have lived through the night? You have put everything at risk, and for what? A spot of fun?

“I admit, boy, even I thought you above such delinquency. I was certain that your participation in the resurrection of the Dark Lord last spring would have made an impression on you, that you would have realized what he was capable of and learned to tread carefully, but no! Not for the great Harry Potter, Triwizard Champion! Not for the famous Boy Who Lived! You’re untouchable, aren’t you? Well? Speak up!”

Resurrection of the Dark Lord. Harry felt a wave of nausea rip through him. He had, hadn’t he? If not for him, if not for his blood…. He should have fought harder. He should have grabbed the Cup straight away, as soon as he’d realized what was going on. Foolish of him, so very foolish. 

“I….” He had no words. If only he’d grabbed Cedric, if only he’d snatched the Cup again. They’d both be alive right now, and Voldemort would still be a fragile bundle of flesh and bones, helpless as an infant. 

“You… what?” Snape sneered. “You didn’t realize? You didn’t think? I’m shocked.”

“I should have….”

“Yes, you should have thought of someone other than yourself for once,” Snape agreed icily. “You will pay for your selfishness, you will pay for your lack of control, and most of all you will pay for the mockery you have made of the protection and care you have received thus far. I will see to it.” Without warning, Snape seized him by the collar and dragged him down the hallway into a small, dilapidated kitchen. 

Snape released him, shoving him forward a few steps. Harry stumbled, just barely managing to keep himself from crashing into the kitchen table. 

“I’m afraid your accommodations from here on out will disappoint,” Snape began, his voice back to that too-calm, too-even tone. “But I thought this residence would do nicely for what I have in mind. You, Potter, will be restoring it by hand for the next two months. You will clean, organize, repair, and update every inch of this place. You will work from dawn until dusk, seven days a week, until you are tired and aching and miserable, as penance for your actions. And, Merlin willing, this lesson will perhaps instill a modicum of humility into you, enough to keep you from repeating your actions and descending any further into degeneracy.” 

Harry stifled his desire to groan aloud. It was no worse than what his aunt and uncle would have him do, he told himself. And Snape was a bully, of that there was no doubt, but at least he would likely limit himself to verbal taunts. Not like Dudley et al. 

Well. If the man was setting him to household chores, it was unlikely that he planned to turn Harry over to Voldemort. Right? At least, he hoped that was the case. Maybe Snape was just torturing him prior to handing him over, or lulling him into a false sense of security.

But that didn’t explain the excessive lecturing. So, perhaps he was at least safe now. And that was better than where he’d been earlier that day, because Snape was right on that account at least. He didn’t want to wait for a couple of Death Eaters to turn up and murder him in a Muggle jail. 

“You’ll start here. Scrub the floor and counters, organize the cupboards, clear out the pest infestations, inventory the pantry. You will do the work to my satisfaction, and I am sure you know by now that my standard is exacting.” Snape paused, turning a cold, assessing stare on Harry. His voice dropped lower still when he spoke his next words. “And you will apply yourself to your tasks, boy. You will work until I have determined your task finished, even if it takes you all night. I will not tolerate your laziness, not here. Clear?”

Calm, Harry ordered himself. It’s no different than the Dursleys. Just pretend you’re back there, and it’s Aunt Petunia, not Snape. She would say the same exact things. And you know how to answer her to keep the peace.

“Yes, sir.” He’d lapsed back into the safe, dull monotone that he liked to hide behind during his summers. There was no defiance in it, no anger, but no true deference either. It was the best compromise he could come up with. He started toward the cupboard beneath the sink, thinking that was as likely a place as any to find the cleaning supplies he would need. 

“One more thing, Potter.” 

Harry froze, spine going rigid. He could hear the vindictiveness in those words without having to really listen, and instantly his mind was flying, trying to put meaning to that tone. What more would Snape do to him? More importantly, why was he so surprised? Had he really believed that he would get off with a little manual labor? No, that was far too easy, and Snape loathed him far too much for that. 

“So you don’t get any bright ideas about running off on your own….”

Harry whipped around, visions of chains and manacles rising in his head. The bastard was going to tie him up, wasn’t he? He was going to have a little shackle staked to the ground, and he’d be allowed to hobble around the radius of the kitchen but no further. He would have to beg for a chance to use the facilities, and likely that would be contingent on how much work he’d completed. And Snape wasn’t very likely to be impressed regardless of how well Harry did, that he knew. 

He watched, gut clenched tightly, as Snape popped a button off the top of his shirt and, with a wave of his wand, transformed it into a ring. 

A plain silver ring. Not a dog collar, not a manacle. Harry didn’t understand. What was the man about to do with that?

“Contrendus,” Snape uttered, tapping his wand to the thick band. It glowed white hot briefly, then faded to its original color. “Come here, Potter.” 

Harry shuffled forward, one heavy, lumbering step at a time. 

Snape snatched his hand up by the wrist, roughly and without ceremony, and jammed the ring onto his middle finger. The band tightened immediately and started to glow once more, blinding white at first, then blue, before fading once more. 

Snape dropped Harry’s wrist as if it were a vivisected flobberworm. “That will not come off, so do not waste your energy trying to remove it. It will prevent you from leaving the property, and the wards will signal to me if you make such an attempt. The results of such foolishness, boy, will not be favorable, I promise you.” 

Snape paused, lips pursing unpleasantly, before he snatched the wrist once more. He expertly touched the tip of his wand to the band and muttered another spell; this one settled over it like a shimmering net, and sent chills down Harry’s spine. “That,” Snape added, dropping the wrist once more and even going so far as to wipe the tainted hand against his robe, “will allow you to alert me should something happen. Emergencies, Potter, meaning life-or-death situations. Touch it and say ‘help’ to activate it. Abuse it and I will charm that ring to burn like hot coals every time you slack off. Do we understand one another?”

Carefully, Harry eased his opposite hand over so that he could run a curious finger along the metal band. It felt warm to the touch. Harry felt something else clench in his stomach, something that was potent and uncomfortable, but not dread. 

The man had not been intentionally cruel. He had free reign to inflict anything on his most hated student, and here he’d restrained himself to something unobtrusive. Something that could also function to protect Harry. 

Harry didn’t kid himself. He knew the man had likely only included the distress signal in order to better protect his charge for Dumbledore’s sake. It was duty, nothing more. Still, it was better than the Dursleys had ever done. So maybe a completely irate Snape would be marginally better than his loving family and their standard of care. 

“Potter?” Snape repeated, the single word laden with menace.

“Yes, sir.” Genuinely contrite this time, the only thanks he would ever give the man for his restraint. 

“Then get to it.” And with those snarled words, the professor stalked away.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry does more housework, but this time at Snape's house.

Harry allowed himself to lean against the kitchen counter, a brief respite. He’d been laboring for a solid two or three hours now, and much of the kitchen now reflected that. The floor, though still dull with age and marred by several permanent stains, was clean enough to eat off of (to Aunt Petunia’s standard, which was saying something). The counters were polished as well. He was rather proud of the work, considering the meager cleaning supplies he had to work with. He’d found a few half-emptied bottles of Muggle products, most so old that the labels had begun to fade, and a handful of crusty rags, but little else. Thankfully there had been a bucket and soap too, otherwise he doubted he would have been able to do much. 

In addition to cleaning the surfaces in the kitchen, Harry had managed to sort through all of the cupboards. Most of the food had gone off, though there were a good number of tinned items that appeared to be viable still. Too, he’d dragged out all of the cookery, china, and other various odds and ends and organized them. Some had been chipped, so he’d set those aside. 

Once the cupboards had been cleared, he’d had to dig into the task of clearing out the evidence of the mice that had moved in over the years. This part of his chore was, admittedly, less than pleasant, and he had less experience with it due to Petunia’s obsession with cleanliness. His aunt would faint if she ever saw the condition of these cupboards, he was certain. 

Still, he kept his mind focused on the minutia of his task, forcing all thoughts and fears and irritations away from his mind. In a way he was grateful for the overwhelming amount of work. Sure, he’d had his chores at the Dursleys, but there was far from enough work to keep him occupied every hour of the day. In fact, if he’d been kept busy around the house and yard, perhaps he never would have gone down to the park, and perhaps Dudley and friends never would have been able to pin this latest crime on him. 

Ah, well. No use in dwelling on what may have been. 

Now, though, his body was starting to protest the strain. It had been a good number of hours since Snape had directed him to begin, and he’d seen neither hide nor hair of the man since then. Harry figured he couldn’t have gone far because, Monitoring Charm or no, the Potions Master wouldn’t trust Harry any further than he could throw him. Harry figured he was just skulking in the basement, working at converting it into a lab. 

He didn't care, really. In fact, he was thrilled to have been left alone for so long. 

And now, he decided he would take his well-earned break. He rinsed out an old coffee mug (there were no drinking glasses left in the assortment of dishes left behind) and filled it with tap water, hoping in the back of his mind that the stuff was potable. He was fairly certain Snape wouldn’t appreciate Harry accidentally poisoning himself. 

He’d settled at the table in one of the mostly-stable chairs when he heard the telltale click of boots against the floorboards. 

Snape appeared in the entryway into the kitchen, a sour look on his face, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. 

Harry leapt up automatically, nearly toppling his chair as he did so. But it was too late. Snape had seen him, and now Harry would have to face whatever consequences the man set for his “slacking”. Aunt Petunia would ream him out and use the laziness as an excuse to lock Harry in his room after he’d finished his chores, which mean that he’d get only a meager dinner that night too. Something tinned, likely. 

Snape, Harry feared, would be much more creative. 

But Harry tried not to show his fear. Instead, he stood with his shoulders back, his chin up, as he waited for the man to launch into things. He would not give Snape the satisfaction of seeing him cower or despair, that much he vowed. 

Snape’s cold black eyes swept over the room quickly. His lip curled slightly in displeasure. “So you can work effectively,” he commented contemptuously. “One wonders what you might achieve should you apply this… focus… to other aspects of your life. Surely it could eradicate at least some of your mediocrity.”

Harry blinked stupidly at the man for a moment. He was certain that there was a compliment buried in there. Somewhere. Wrapped deep beneath all the layers of insults. 

So he did what seemed most natural—or, at least, most sensible—in the moment. Strange twist of logic though it was. “Thank you.”

The Potions Master’s brow crept so high it disappeared. “I beg your pardon?”

Harry couldn’t stop an embarrassed flush from creeping over his cheeks. He dropped his gaze down to the table, deciding to focus all his visual attention on the patterns in the woodgrain. “It doesn’t sound like you’re going to make me redo this.” He gestured to the room with a little sweep of his hand. “So… so that must mean you think it’s okay.” 

Snape scoffed. “It’s cleaning, Potter. Menial labor. Either you’ve removed the mess or you have not. The fact that you have, for once, managed to do as you were instructed should not be a point of pride for you.”

Harry balled his fists tightly, willing himself not to snap back at the man. “I just meant,” he ground out, “that I’m glad my work meets with your approval. Sir.” God knew Petunia was never this silent after he’d completed a task. 

In the next minute Snape had him by the front of his shirt and he was twisting the collar tightly, causing the fabric to cut into Harry. “I do not know who you think to fool with this little act,” he hissed coldly. Harry could feel the spray of the man’s spittle, the byproduct of his violent diction. “You can play the contrite little houseboy all you want, but we both know what you are. You will need a great deal more finesse if you hope to manipulate me, Potter.” Snape released him, shoving him back slightly as he did so, the man’s wrist jerking sharply and the fingers spreading as if flicking away an irksome fly. 

Harry’s fury overrode his chagrin then. He lifted his eyes to meet the man’s gaze squarely. “I’m not trying to manipulate you, you idiot! Why would I even bother, for one? I know by now that you can’t see past the end of your giant nose when it comes to me—“

Snape had his wand out and the charm fired off so quickly that for a moment Harry had no idea what had happened. His lips continued to move, but the sound of his voice suddenly vanished. 

Snape’s lips quirked in a vicious little smirk. “What was that, Potter? I’m afraid I can’t hear you.”

Harry tried to scream his frustration. He could feel the force of his efforts grating in his throat, wearing it raw, but it all amounted to nothing. 

“If you cannot speak respectfully, boy, then you will not be privileged with speaking.” He slid his wand back up his sleeve. “Go wash up. And while you do so, contemplate just how wise it is to continue with this blatant insolence.”

Harry forced himself to draw a deep breath. He wanted to scream at the man. But it would do him no good, he knew, just make more trouble for himself. And he had enough trouble as it was. So instead he reeled in his temper. Really, had he expected anything less? Snape despised him; the man thought the very worst of him. Likely that would never change, so why twist himself in knots over it?

Painful though it was, he forced himself to give a little polite nod to Snape. Humility, he knew, could work wonders in soothing frayed tempers. It had been a regular necessary evil in the Dursley household. All he needed to do to make this situation work, really, was accept that his dignity was now moot with Snape as well as his relatives. If he could make peace with that, he could fall into his regular summer routine with Snape and perhaps survive, even, to the beginning of the school year. 

And if Snape gossiped to the Slytherins about the reformed delinquent Harry Potter, well, so what? It wasn’t as if that crowd didn’t snicker about him anyway. At least this latest choice piece of the rumor mill wouldn’t catch him off guard. 

It occurred to Harry as he left the kitchen that he had no clue where the lavatory was in this decrepit dung-heap. For a moment he contemplated turning back and playing charades with the man in an attempt to get directions, but decided immediately against that. He’d been lucky so far in avoiding the worst Snape might choose to inflict, and he’d just lost control of his tongue. No need to tempt fate. 

The loo, as it turned out, was on the second floor. And unfortunately, it was in the same sorry condition as the rest of the house. The sink was grotty, the mirror cracked, and the shower looked as if it might be growing things. A lone ratty towel hung on the rack on the back wall. 

Harry smiled grimly to himself. He had no doubt that he would be scrubbing every inch of this room before the summer was out, likely with a toothbrush. His own toothbrush, if Snape’s current foul mood held. 

Doubtless Snape was expecting complaints, something to feed his vitriol for Poor Prince Potter. Well, Harry wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. 

He showered quickly. Apart from the disgusting state of the floor and walls, it wasn’t as bad as he’d expected. Sure, the water was lukewarm at best, and there hadn’t been any shampoo, but he was used to showers at the Dursleys. He was allowed maybe a minute of water, and most of the time he was expected to make do with cold water so he didn’t steam up the room and run up the utility bill. On the rare occasions when he’d dared to use hot water, he’d usually had to suffer Dudley coming in and flushing the toilet or running the taps, which would make the water temperature fluctuate drastically. That was worse, Harry had decided, than cold water alone. 

He’d even managed to scrounge up a bar of soap from beneath the sink here. Snape was insane, but Harry doubted he would snap at Harry for helping himself to basic toiletries. 

Showered, dried, and dressed back in his stinking clothes (he’d already determined there was nothing to be done about his lack of fresh clothing), Harry descended the stairs, bracing himself for this next confrontation with the man. 

Snape was seated at the table, a sandwich in front of him along with a glass of ice water. He was reading from a thin volume, held aloft in his left hand. 

Harry sighed internally, seeing no other place setting. Back to snitching food, he thought glumly. But he knew better than to glare or otherwise give any indication that he was upset. 

Instead, he squared his shoulders, ignored the man as thoroughly as he was being ignored, and strode directly over to the cupboards where he’d been working, intending to continue scouring the shelves. He knelt, biting back a groan (not that it would have been heard with the silencing charm) as his full weight returned to his already-aching knees. He found the rag he’d been using along with one of the cleaning products. 

“Potter.” The word came out as a snarl, and seconds later Harry found himself being hauled to his feet by his collar and spun to face a newly-furious Severus Snape. “Did I not just tell you that your poor-me act will get you nowhere?”

What now? Harry thought wearily. Maybe he fancies that he can read my thoughts. He did his level best to stare evenly at the professor, fighting down the useless rage that was churning in his stomach.

Snape sneered at him. “Ah, that’s right. If I let you speak again, do you think you can keep that vile tongue of yours in check?”

Harry couldn’t control the enraged flush that colored his cheeks. But he managed to nod sharply, knowing that Snape would not release him until he’d had at least that satisfaction. 

“Somehow I doubt it. But we shall try this again.” Snape drew his wand and, with a contemptuous flick, freed Harry’s voice. “Now, I will ask you again. Were you not told to drop this pathetic bid for sympathy?”

Harry forced himself to take three deep, calming breaths before responding. “I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

“Really, Potter?” Snape loomed closer, the proximity of his tall frame causing Harry to back up a few steps automatically. “Conspicuously foregoing lunch in favor of working your poor fingers to the bone? Did you think that my hard heart would break at the thought of you missing a meal?”

Harry listed offensive spells to himself in an effort to keep any sharp retorts from forming. Stupefy, petrificus totalus, rictumsempra, tantellegra, impedimenta…. Two more deep breaths and he felt capable of replying. “I didn’t know if I was permitted to eat. Sir.”

Snape’s hand caught Harry’s collar again and dragged him close. “I doubt you’ve missed a meal in your life, Potter. Don’t pretend. Just because you did not receive an engraved invitation—“

“I didn’t receive an invitation at all! Or anything! If you had just bothered to tell me—“

“I will not wait on you hand and foot,” Snape cut him off, his words sharp and biting. “I will not cater to you in any way, boy. If you want to eat, there are cold cuts in the fridge. Make yourself something—or don’t. I couldn’t care less.” He released Harry’s collar and turned sharply. “I expect you’ll have the kitchen finished by this evening,” he threw over his shoulder. “If not, the consequences will not be pleasant.” Seconds later he was gone, the kitchen table cleared of any trace of the man. 

Harry tried to count his blessings as he helped himself to the food in the fridge. Yes, Snape was being a royal git, and yes, the man was still ridiculously paranoid about Harry’s behavior, as if Harry could not possibly have decent motives for doing his work without complaint. But there was nothing that could be done about that, and for the moment he was allowed to shower and eat, and Snape wasn’t hovering over him like some sarcastic, arrogant Dementor. So there was that. 

Harry made himself a turkey and cheese sandwich. There wasn’t much by way of food; Harry idly wondered if Snape had made a grocery run, or if a House Elf had been sent with it from Hogwarts. Still, it was better than nothing. There was no water set aside, though, and mistrustful though he was of the house’s plumbing, he was dying of thirst. So he let the faucet run for a few minutes, long enough for it to lose its evil rusty tinge, then filled himself a glass. The color was still questionable, but not nearly as bad as it had been, and besides, he was desperate. 

He wolfed down the sandwich rather quickly. He’d missed breakfast, and Snape hadn’t offered him anything once they’d arrived at the house. On top of that, he’d really applied a good deal of elbow grease since his arrival, and had worked up quite an appetite. 

He washed it down with the water, which had a funny metallic aftertaste to it. Not much worse than drinking out of the garden hose, Harry decided.

Then it was back to work. Once again, Harry found himself grateful for the menial labor. It helped him keep his mind off of too many things, including his new keeper’s impossible attitude. 

But God was the man a pill. He’d been upset with Harry for acting too compliant, of all things! What was Harry supposed to do? Walk a fine line between quiet resentment and outright defiance? Practice seeming utterly miserable but too sensible to complain about it? Ah, but likely the man would find fault with that as well! 

The anger simmered in him, but at least now, without Snape’s presence, Harry was free to mutter to himself. He ground the rag into the filthy little cubbyholes all around the kitchen with particular vigor, enough that his arm began to ache quite distinctly. But he didn’t mind, really. The pain was another distraction from this fresh hell he’d fallen into. 

Maybe, he thought bitterly, he’d died in that graveyard, and this really was hell. Snape and Vernon could give the devil a run for his money, that was for certain. Snape especially. He tried to picture the man with horns and a tail, wielding a pitchfork; the image caused him to snort with a grim sort of amusement. 

If only he weren’t actually stuck here with his own tailor-made tormenter, he thought, then he could have laughed at the whole situation. Scrubbing cranky old Snape’s kitchen during his summer holiday. Maybe, before the graveyard that spring, he would have said that this was the worst fate possible. 

Well, now he knew better. There were awful things in the world, and he’d just helped to resurrect one—

No. He wouldn’t think of that. Anything but that. He would drive himself mad if he kept driving that stake into his own heart. 

He refocused all his energy and attention on the kitchen. There was still plenty to do, and Snape’s threat hanging over him to keep him moving along. He wouldn’t give the man a single thing to complain about, he decided. This whole damned room would be as perfect as he could make it. Well, considering his limited arsenal of supplies….

He wasn’t about to ask Snape for anything. Even cleaning supplies. He would just make do with what he had to hand. 

Heaving a bone-deep sigh, Harry resigned himself to continuing to scrub the cupboards. It was going to be a long afternoon.

XXXXX

Harry slumped down in the wooden kitchen chair, moaning in pleasure as he felt the load of his weight leave his feet. He’d overdone it. It had happened more than a few times at the Dursleys, so he knew the sensation well. He’d spent too long kneeling on the floor, had scrubbed too hard with his hands (there were blisters on his palms now), and in general had overextended himself, all in hopes of keeping Snape from upping his punishment. 

He slipped his glasses off his face. They were grimy from poking around under the sink, where decades of filth had collected. Why he thought Snape would care how clean it was under there was beyond him, but he’d decided to scrub it out anyway. He sighed and began cleaning the lenses with the inside of his shirt. 

It had to be getting late, he thought. It was still light as ever outside, but that meant nothing in the middle of summer in Britain. His stomach was growling, and he hadn’t seen Snape since lunch—not even a glimpse of the man’s greasy hair. 

Harry cast a surreptitious glance back at the fridge. He could make himself another sandwich, he thought. Snape seemed to expect him to feed himself. What was the worst the man could do to him? Bark at him that he wasn’t to help himself to things whenever he fancied it? And not eating would be twisted—somehow—into another bid for sympathy. Though Harry still had a hard time wrapping his head around that logic. 

“Finished, Potter?”

Harry nearly jumped out of his skin. He toppled the chair he’d been sitting in when he leapt to his feet, startled, to find Snape standing in the entryway to the kitchen, arms folded over his chest, face pinched in a sneer. 

Harry jammed his glasses back onto his face and quickly tried to marshal his thoughts. “Uh—yeah. Yes, sir, I mean,” he corrected himself hastily when he saw Snape’s lip lift in an unpromising snarl. Dursley meek, he chanted to himself. You’re listing off chores you completed to Aunt Petunia. You’re explaining to Vernon how careful you were when you washed his car. “There are a couple of cupboards that are a little loose on their hinges. I didn’t find a tool kit. And most of the appliances didn’t work. I did get the blender working again after tinkering—“

“What are you blathering on about?” Snape interrupted sharply, his dark eyes flashing. “You wasted your time on the appliances? Are you daft, boy?”

Harry gritted his teeth. God, the man had to be trying to provoke him. There was no other explanation for it. “I didn’t know, sir. I did my best to get everything into working order—“

“Come now, Potter,” Snape scoffed. “I know your brain is not your most prominent asset, but even a halfwit could come to the proper conclusion. How much use has a wizard for Muggle appliances?”

Don’t let him win, Harry told himself. He wants you to react. So don’t. “I don’t know, sir.”

Snape drew out his wand, and Harry watched, biting down hard on his tongue, as the man banished the toaster, blender, mixer, and handful of other small kitchen appliances that he had painstakingly sorted through. “There is your answer, since you are incapable of reasoning it out yourself.”

Harry’s hands balled into fists of their own volition. “Perhaps if I’d had some instruction, sir—“

“Consider your wasted efforts further punishment for your lack of mental discipline.” Snape’s gaze swept over the rest of the room, sharp and intense, clearly searching for more to criticize. “Hmph. Well, as I do not trust you not to poison us with your culinary ineptitude, you can go start on weeding the yard while I prepare our dinner.”

Since Snape had no scathing comments, Harry guessed that his work was, mercifully, still satisfactory. And Snape was going to cook, and he’d said our dinner, which took all the guesswork out of things concerning the evening meal. 

If the Dursleys had taught him anything, it was to look for silver linings. And a clear directive like that certainly was one. The fact that Snape hadn’t loomed over him all day, as Harry had feared he would, was another. 

And Harry was smart enough not to provoke the man for any reason, not when things thus far had been so unbelievably smooth. Really, it was a miracle they hadn’t killed each other yet.

So Harry murmured a dutiful “yes, sir” and scurried out the door, before Snape could take it into his mind to discipline Harry for acting humble to score points.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disappointing letters.

The yard was pitiful. It was not large, which was perhaps its only positive trait, and the heavy wooden fence that surrounded it, boxing it away from the neighboring brick houses and the street (or alleyway) that lay beyond the far fence, imparted a sense of claustrophobia. It was far more fitting as a prison yard than anything residential.

There was hardly any point in weeding, Harry thought, since even the weeds were struggling to survive in this inhospitable little plot. And as if that weren’t bad enough, there were bits of glass bottle and chip wrappers strewn about, as if the yard had become a public dumping ground of sorts. Likely, passersby had taken to chucking their rubbish over the fence.

Harry sighed to himself. God knew where Snape had even found this place. Maybe he’d bought the dump of a property especially for Harry, thinking that he could restore it and flip it for a profit. That would be the Slytherin thing to do—two birds with one stone. Assure Harry Potter’s utter misery while raking in a tidy sum for himself.

There hadn’t been any trash bags in the house; Harry had looked. So he resigned himself to gathering the filthy pieces of trash and piling them in one corner of the yard for the time being. He’d ask Snape later how he was supposed to dispose of it all.

At least it was not hot. If he were back at the Dursleys, he thought bitterly, this would be the day his aunt had him scouring the house. She would wait for a sweltering morning to send him out to the flower beds, where he would really suffer. Here, though, wherever it was, it was overcast and gray, and sliding into the cooler hours of the late afternoon.

Though, Harry thought as he collected muck-encrusted rubbish, he would have preferred to be tending the perfectly-maintained flowerbeds and manicured lawn of Number Four Privet Drive. Even his stint picking up trash along the Thames hadn’t been so bad. Though that might have had more to do with the fact that he’d been allowed to work in peace. Even the other delinquents hadn’t been as bad as his relatives, or Snape.

“Bloody hell!” The curse left his lips before he could think as a sharp pain pierced the skin between his left thumb and index. He dropped the broken liquor bottle he’d been picking up and shook the appendage out, even though he knew that hardly helped things.

As if to prove a point, a few drops of warm blood spattered against his hand and the bleak ground, while the red substance continued to well at the place where he’d cut it. Normally he would have just wrapped his hand in his shirt and changed clothes before his aunt saw him, but since he only had the clothes on his back and was not, under any circumstances, going to ask Snape about getting any others, he supposed he would have to come up with another solution.

Because God forbid he have a blood stain on his shirt, further proof of Gryffindor martyrdom. Snape would throw a fit.

A quick glance around the yard had him heading for the tiny, ramshackle shed at the far corner of the miniscule yard. One-handed, Harry managed to pry open the door. The hinges had rusted over, but thankfully that same rust had enfeebled the metal, making it a matter of yanking hard enough on the handle. Inside, like in the cupboards of the house, was a collection of odds and ends that had been left to molder over the years—oil cans, cylinders whose labels had long since washed out, a rusted heap of a push mower. Harry spied a crusted rag that was dirty enough that it would likely give him tetanus or some other unpleasant disease.

Well. He’d had worse over the years. And he’d clean the cut out better once he was inside. This was just to staunch the blood flow. He shook the rag out as best he could and wrapped it tightly around the cut, wincing at the feel of the gritty cloth. God, he hoped Snape had peroxide or rubbing alcohol or something.

“Potter!”

Harry startled. What now? What could the man possibly want? He daubed a few more times at his wound, then stuffed his hand into his pocket before turning back toward the house.

Snape was glowering at him from the doorway. His eyes drifted to Harry’s injured hand, now resting idle in his pocket, and his lip curled further. “I sent you out here to work, not to laze about. Inside, now!”

Harry bit his tongue and complied, careful to keep his eyes on the wretched ground in front of him. Of course the man wouldn’t notice any progress. Of course he’d just assume that Harry had been staring off into space.

Back in the kitchen, Harry saw that the table had not been set. In fact, Snape had laid out parchment, a quill, and ink, which did not bode well. Was Snape unimpressed with physical labor? Would Harry have to do lines as well to please the sadist?

“Go get yourself cleaned up, and report back here. You’ve a letter to write.”

Harry didn’t like the sound of that. But his hand was stinging, and his body ached, and he was in no mood to fight any more with Snape that day. So he trudged up the stairs yet again and into the bathroom, where he immediately withdrew his left hand and began cleaning it out under running water.

He wished desperately that he had his wand and his textbook. And that he was allowed to use magic in the summer. Not much, just enough for a simple little healing spell, something to knit the skin back together. Not that he’d really needed a spell when he’d been little. Sometimes he’d been able to get his scraped knees and blisters to disappear just by wishing them away.

A thought occurred to him. He yanked his hand back out of the water and stared fixedly down at the thin, deep gash that still dripped blood. How had he managed it when he’d been younger? Had he imagined it healing? Had he focused on making the pain go away? Had it been his anger at his aunt and uncle that had driven it? He closed his eyes, willing himself to somehow take hold of that power.

He felt a slight tingle, and a lessening of the sharp pain. He opened his eyes to find that, while not fully healed, his wound had closed. It looked several days old now rather than a few minutes old. And it wasn’t completely sealed, but the blood flow seemed to have stemmed. That was something. He scrounged around in the cheap wooden medicine cabinet over the sink for a moment, thinking that some kind of antiseptic definitely wouldn’t go amiss.

There was very little to work with—a rusted pair of tweezers, a few yellowed adhesive bandages, and a nearly-empty tube of something. Upon further examination, he found out it was an extremely outdated tube of antiseptic cream. He managed to coax out a tiny dollop to apply, then scrubbed at his face as best he could before finally forcing himself to trudge back downstairs to face Snape.

The man was hovering over a pot at the stove, wand trained beside him on a book that floated midair. Beside him sat a cutting board covered in chopped onions and carrots. He turned back briefly, his neutral expression instantly filling with scorn. “Sit,” he commanded, gesturing imperiously with his wand to a seat at the table.

Harry resigned himself to whatever exercise in humiliation Snape had planned. There was no way out of it, he reminded himself. Not unless Dumbledore suddenly decided to actually look into matters for once, or Remus or his godfather or the Weasleys attempted to stage an intervention on his behalf. Idly, he wondered if any of them besides Dumbledore knew that he was stuck here.

“You will write a thoroughly contrite apology to the poor woman you victimized,” Snape announced coldly, using the same tone he would in detentions to name off creatures to be pickled or disemboweled. “And you will write it to my standards. That is to say, Potter, that you will give a full accounting of your actions, a detailed summary of what your impact has been, an expression of remorse, and a plan to make amends. Is that clear?”

Harry’s temper snapped. Lines he could handle. It was a repetitive, boring, and meaningless task, and he could simply lose himself in the mechanics of it. But this? Writing out a full apology for a crime he hadn’t even committed, before his promised trial had even concluded? What had ever happened to the presumption of innocence?

Oh, not that Snape needed things as trivial as _evidence_ and _proof_ , not when it came to Harry Bloody Potter.

Well, it wasn’t as though Snape had given him any breaks since he’d arrived—minus, perhaps, not literally putting him in chains. Still, Harry couldn’t stomach the thought of sitting here quietly and scratching out a false confession of guilt under the man’s watchful eye.

“And if I don’t?” Harry gritted out, glaring at the man.

Snape smirked cruelly at him, his black eyes glittering. “Then I shall enjoy starting this evening’s fire with these.” He slipped a hand into his robes and withdrew a bundle of letters tied with twine. He tossed it down on the table beside Harry in challenge.

Harry could make out Sirius’ scrawl on the outside of the top one. He started to reach for them, just to brush his fingers across the parchment—his _post_ —but stopped himself in time. Snape might decide to burn one right then and there, just to punish him for his presumption.

God, Harry hated it, but he knew that he needed those letters more than anything. He needed sympathy, something to offset what a terrible summer it had been so far. Sirius would ask how he was holding up, and maybe offer a funny anecdote about Harry’s father and Remus from their Hogwarts days, and then Harry could write back about how terrible things were, and about how he’d been falsely accused, and Sirius would get all indignant and come rushing in to save Harry from this miserable existence.

And maybe, Harry thought, he would get to go to the Weasleys for the rest of the summer now that he was away from the Dursleys. If Dumbledore had agreed to let Snape take him on, he figured it was just as likely that he’d be allowed to spend the remainder of his holiday elsewhere.

And for that, Harry decided, he could suffer through writing one letter that he didn’t even mean. He knew he’d have to really invest in that letter, of course; Snape wasn’t going to put up with anything half-assed. Still, Harry figured he could just pretend it was a creative writing exercise. What would he say to old Mrs. Applewhite if he were Dudley? Well, if he were a severely reformed Dudley….

As he took up the quill, Harry had the horrible thought that Snape was going to hold the letters over his head indefinitely, that even if Harry _did_ write a letter just oozing with regret and remorse, the Potions Master would simply snatch the bundle back and tuck it away, claiming that Harry didn’t deserve any sympathy from his band of merry minions.

But damn it, what else was he going to do? Demand that Snape give him his rightful property? _That_ was likely to go over well…. Yeah, Snape wasn’t likely to be any better than the Dursleys in that respect, was he? He’d enjoy tormenting Harry with the prospect of letters from friends every time he wanted Harry to do something. Hell, the man would probably read them right in front of Harry, smirking to himself, before feeding them page by page into the hearth.

Harry took a deep breath to steady himself. No use in getting worked up already, he told himself. He’d play along with Snape’s game for now. It wasn’t going to cost him anything to do as Snape had asked anyway, and letter-writing was a hell of a lot better than picking up trash from the yard in the approaching twilight.

So Harry wrote.

_Dear Mrs. Applewhite,_

_Words cannot express how very sorry I am…._

Harry wrote about how spoiled he’d been as a child, how he’d always had everything he’d ever wanted. He wrote about being young and stupid and susceptible to half-baked plans tossed out by friends. He wrote about not thinking about anyone but himself, and what was fun in the moment. He wrote about how terrified she must have been, and how it must have felt to be violated like that. He begged for her forgiveness, and promised that he would do everything he could to put her home to rights and make up for the wrong he’d inflicted.

By the time he was signing his name at the bottom, the kitchen was heady with the scent of stew, and Harry’s stomach was rumbling.

“Finished, Potter?”

Harry gritted his teeth again, but he managed to bite his tongue for the most part. “Yes sir.”

“Hmph.” Snape swooped over to the table and snatched up the letter from beneath Harry’s still-inked quill. Harry watched, eyes blazing defiance, as the Potions Master’s beady black eyes scanned quickly over the drying lines.

After a minute the man’s nose wrinkled in disgust, but he folded the parchment and tucked it away. Without another word, he returned to tending his pot.

That was it? No sneering? No, _what is this drivel, Potter_? No, _inadequate, you cretin, start again_?

“I highly doubt you mean a word of this,” the Potions Master commented idly.

Ah, there it was.

“However, it will have to do for the moment. Perhaps returning her property to her tomorrow, and issuing a verbal apology, will be enough to cut through your arrogance.”

Harry sighed internally. Of course… God, he hated the thought of staring into the elderly woman’s disappointed eyes. Of all the people on Privet Drive, she’d been one of the kinder presences over the years. She reminded him very much of a milder version of Mrs. Figg, minus the cats. In fact, Harry was positive he’d seen the woman ambling over to Mrs. Figg’s house around teatime on occasion.

Well. Nothing for it, he supposed. Snape wasn’t going to listen to him, so Harry wasn’t going to bother wasting his breath pleading his innocence _again._ And even if Snape let him read _and_ reply to his post, it would take days for anything to come of that. Even if Sirius went straight to Dumbledore, or hell, tried to storm into Snape’s house himself, it wouldn’t get him out of being dragged back to Privet Drive the next morning.

Harry eyed the bundle of letters. Tentatively, he reached a hand out toward them, just waiting for Snape to whip around and bark at him not to touch them. The man didn’t, though. Carefully, he slid the pile closer to himself, wondering if he could just sneak off with them and stash them somewhere that Snape couldn’t find them and confiscate them again.

“Take them upstairs,” Snape commanded brusquely without turning back around. “First bedroom on the right. You will deposit them and return right here to await further instruction. And if I see them again, I will pitch them straight into the fire, is that clear?”

Harry felt a rush of shock, then relief, at those words. Snape was letting him keep them? Well, hell, Harry wasn’t going to hang around and wait for the man to change his mind. He was nearly to the decrepit sitting room when Snape’s voice rang out again.

“And Potter?”

Harry froze. He had to swallow twice before he felt steady enough to reply. “Yes, sir?” There. That was pretty damned respectful, wasn’t it?

“Recall that I am in no way obligated to allow you to reply. Keep that in mind before you decide to once again behave like an utter lout.”

Harry ground his teeth together again. If things continued like this, he might have to talk to Hermione about a consultation with her parents—if there was anything left of his teeth for the Doctors Granger to see to. Yet again, he managed to force out a “yes sir”, and left the room before Snape could test his forbearance with further insults.

The bedroom was not much better than the rest of the house. It was narrow and cramped, smaller than even his room at the Dursley’s, with a skinny window that overlooked the depressing yard below. The bed was little more than a worn mattress on a rickety metal frame, and the only other piece of furniture in the room was a slightly-lopsided armoire that had seen better days. Everything was covered in a fine layer of dust that, when disturbed, nearly sent Harry into a sneezing fit.

Trained from years at the Dursleys, Harry began searching for the most inconspicuous hiding place he could find. He had a gut feeling that Snape would get angry with him in short order and decide to take the letters back, and the last thing that Harry wanted to do was make that easier for the man. After a few moments he settled on tucking them behind the molding in the right corner of the room; the wooden strip had loosened just enough for the thick packet to be squirreled away. It had nothing on his loose floorboard, Harry decided, but it was certainly better than leaving them out in the open.

He hurried back downstairs, not eager to incur Snape’s wrath for dawdling. Or, any more of the man’s wrath, at least.

Snape was just removing the pot of what Harry assumed was stew from the stove by the time he returned. The man flashed Harry another of his derisive little glances before turning to the cupboard and summoning down two bowls. “Where did you stash your prizes, Potter?”

Harry frowned, trying to make sense of the question. “Er—prizes?”

“The money and jewelry you stole from your elderly neighbor,” Snape clarified frostily. “It has not been returned to her, and the initial search of the area turned nothing up. So I will ask again: where did you put your loot? Because it will be returned to her tomorrow, boy, and by your hand. So cease playing the fool and answer me!”

Ha. So much for the tentative peace between them. Harry had no answer for that question, and Snape would never believe that Harry didn’t know. And Harry wasn’t stupid enough to lie about it just to placate Snape for the moment; the man would check soon enough, and then he would be even more livid upon finding out that Harry hadn’t told the truth. So Harry braced himself for the Potions Master’s wrath.

“I don’t know, sir.”

Snape froze, hands clenching tightly, before he spun to face Harry. His expression was taut with rage, though he spoke very quietly. “You.. _don’t know_? Have I heard you correctly?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you think it is acceptable,” Snape continued in that same deadly whisper, “to lie about such a thing? To draft an elaborate letter full of platitudes, then turn around and refuse to return this poor woman’s rightful property? Tell me, Potter, morality aside, do you think such a decision _wise_?”

Harry couldn’t stop himself. Maybe it was the overwhelming sense of hopelessness that flooded him, the rage at being thought so contemptible that he would act in such a manner. The complete lack of any possibility of defending himself, too, because in Snape’s eyes he had never even been anything but a criminal, had he?

So he stared the Potions Master square in the eye and replied coolly, “Of course it isn’t wise, sir.”

And that seemed to push Snape over the precipice. He snared Harry by the collar and twisted it tight, closing it around the boy’s neck like a noose—though mercifully without the force to cut off airflow, only just enough to be uncomfortable. Snape leaned down so that his hot breath was directly on Harry’s face, so that Harry was sprayed with spittle with each of the man’s harsh articulations. “You may think yourself above reproach, though Merlin knows how you can still believe that,” Snape hissed coldly. “Let me assure you that I will personally stamp this unbelievable arrogance out of you. You will rectify this, you ungrateful little whelp. You will take that woman her possessions and beg on bended knee for her forgiveness. And then you will go to your relatives and you will beg _their_ forgiveness for having been such a disgrace. And do you know why you will do this, boy?” Snape’s hand twisted just a bit tighter, dragged Harry just a bit closer. “Because there are far better things for me to toss into my fireplace than mere letters.”

Harry went cold. “You can’t,” he rasped, his thoughts flying to his personal effects. Snape had them, he was sure, likely locked away until he was ready to pull them out and incinerate them. Even the Dursleys had never been so cruel. His photo album—God, Snape would enjoy every moment of that, wouldn’t he? He would probably do it one by one, sipping a cold drink as he slowly eliminated the last vestiges of James Potter from this earth. And then his cloak, Harry thought, and his broom from Sirius.

“Would you like to test that theory?”

Harry pulled himself out of Snape’s grasp. Surprisingly, the man let him go. Unsurprisingly, he wiped the hand he’d used to hold Harry against his pants in disgust, as if he’d touched something unbelievably foul.

“Where?” Snape growled.

The words spilled from Harry’s mouth, desperate and choked, before he could stop them. “I don’t _know_ ,” he insisted. “If I knew I’d tell you, but I don’t—”

“I don’t believe that for a second,” Snape snarled. “You may be able to pull the wool over others’ eyes, but not so with me. Answer my question, or you can go the night without supper. Perhaps contemplating over an empty stomach will help you see reason.”

No supper. That seemed like the final ultimatum for the night, Harry decided. Snape would save destruction of his personal possessions (and no doubt the Potions Master would see poetic justice in that, given the presumed reason for Harry’s punishment) for the next day, when he was really frustrated.

Harry wanted to scream. He wanted to cry, to kick at things. But none of that would do any good. The only thing he could do for himself now was muster the stoicism that had carried him through life so far. It was out of his hands, he reminded himself. He’d tried his best to follow instructions, to be obedient, to do what was asked of him. This was another case of getting punished for accidental magic, as far as he was concerned. There was nothing more that he could change about himself, and so he would just have to weather whatever consequences were imposed.

If his things burned, it wouldn’t be because he’d outright defied Snape when he’d had the option not to do so. It would be because the man was blind and prejudiced and didn’t care one whit for the truth, so long as the lies painted Harry Potter in a bad light.

“I’ll go without supper.” Harry was proud of how even the words came out. No sarcastic edge, no resentment, just acceptance.

Of course, that just further incensed Snape. “Playing the martyr card again, Potter?” he sneered. “You haven’t missed a meal in your life. Don’t think you’ll move me to pity—”

That declaration was too much. “I don’t,” Harry reassured the man, his tone icy. “You’re right, Professor. I don’t know what hunger is. I’m certain I’ll be in tears by ten this evening, pleading for you to not let me starve.”   
  


“Upstairs, Potter,” Snape growled through clenched teeth. “I’ve had quite enough of you for this evening. And if you’ve any sense of self-preservation, you will make certain you are neither seen nor heard until I am prepared to deal with you.”

As far as punishments went, Harry thought, that one was pretty standard. Really, it was scarcely a punishment—more a way of life in the Dursley home. _Make no noise, pretend I don’t exist. Got it._ It would be a welcome relief to be out of Snape’s presence too.

Harry darted away, trying to suppress his sudden sense of panic. His letters. Snape hadn’t said one word about the letters. Maybe if he stayed infuriated, he would forget all about them, and wouldn’t come stomping up the stairs, demanding Harry to hand them back over.

He’d have to read them fast, in case Snape remembered. Maybe just skim them for the important stuff. Not that there had been much by way of substance that summer, not even from Ron and Hermione. Their letters had been chock-full of trivialities and non-information, enough to make Harry start to suspect that their friendship was dissolving. And that, of course, led to bursts of irrational thoughts—maybe they blamed him for Cedric’s death, maybe they hated him for helping to resurrect Voldemort, maybe they didn’t really _believe_ that Voldemort was back….

Even so, Harry was still desperate to hear from them.

He went straight to the molding to retrieve the bundle, then carried them all over to the window, where he could read by the dying light of the evening—since there didn’t appear to be another light source in the room. He eased himself down against the hard floor, biting back a groan as his overused muscles protested.

He grinned bitterly to himself. Banished from Snape’s sight meant the man wouldn’t play slave driver and have him working into the wee hours of the morning. He almost laughed. He could lounge about on his bed all evening, turn in early and recover for the next day….

Yes, Snape was bound to be in an especially unpleasant mood in the morning, but that was hours and hours away.

Harry undid the twine from around the letters and picked up the first one—from Sirius. He glanced through the rest, briefly, and was surprised to find that he had a letter from Remus and Mrs. Weasley as well. Nothing from Ron and Hermione, though. He tried not to let that disappointment get to him. Three letters was great, he reminded himself. It was the most he’d gotten at once this summer.

He started with Sirius.

_Harry,_ it read.

_I think I might have given you the wrong impression when I was telling you about your father’s escapades during our school years. And listen, I get that life with the Muggles must be boring. Unbearable, even. But that’s no excuse for behaving as you did._

_When James and I got into trouble, Harry, it was the harmless kind—_

Harry scanned the rest of the letter quickly before flinging it across the room. Lecturing. Scolding. And from Sirius! What the hell? Didn’t the man know Harry better? Where was the outraged defense of his godson? Where was the frantic question, _you didn’t really rob a woman, did you_? No, Sirius had automatically assumed—like Snape—that Harry was capable of breaking into a woman’s home and stealing her valuables. And for what reason? To alleviate his boredom? As if he would draw attention to himself after he’d just resurrected fucking Voldemort!

Hell, Dumbledore should have questioned things more closely! He’d known Harry for years now! It was almost forgivable with Sirius, since he really only knew the man through irregular letters. But Dumbledore… damn it, what had Harry done over the years to warrant such a lack of faith? Hadn’t he always tried to do the right thing, regardless of personal cost? He’d fought a bloody basilisk, for Merlin’s sake!

Harry took a deep breath. Fine, so his godfather thought just as highly of him as Snape. He could deal with that. Remus, though, had taught him for a year, and probably knew better than to believe that Harry had committed a felony just because he was bored.

And that was true, Harry found out. To an extent.

_Harry_ , Remus had written.

_I know that this past year must have been nearly unbearable for you. To face the challenges that you did, and then to watch a classmate die, and to have once again nearly died at the hands of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named—I cannot imagine the stress. Too, I have gathered that your family is not as supportive as you might wish._

Harry snorted at that. Understatement of the century, he thought. Not that Remus would know, really. It wasn’t as if he’d bothered to keep in touch with Harry. It wasn’t as if he could have possibly _known_ that Harry was competing in a risky tournament with a high possibility of death and might have needed moral support or something. Harry kept reading.

_I want to emphasize that I_ do _understand how much of a toll all that can take on you. I know that you cannot be held fully responsible for your actions, given everything you’ve gone through. But Harry, I wish that you had found a healthier outlet for your pain and frustration._

_I know that what you did must have seemed like a great laugh at the time—_

Remus’ letter landed just to the side of Sirius’. Harry knew he was behaving like a child throwing a tantrum, but he really didn’t care at this point.

At least he now knew why Snape hadn’t confiscated the letters. The great bastard was probably having a laugh downstairs at Harry’s expense—Harry, who’d so looked forward to any news from the wizarding world, any word from his surrogate family… only to have it come in the form of scolding and lecturing and disapproval. Snape probably thought that spoiled, pampered Harry Potter deserved no less than to finally be told off for his unacceptable behavior.

By then, he’d pretty much guessed what Mrs. Weasley’s letter would say. Still, some part of him held out hope that his surrogate mother had buried words of encouragement in what she’d written to him.

As it turned out, he was lucky that he hadn’t received it in Howler form. The relatively short missive was peppered with words like “ashamed” and “mortified” and “unbelievable”. And it closed with the hope that, in the future, he would do his parents proud, rather than acting so disgracefully.

The tears did come then. Harry bent his head forward and curled his legs up tight against his body and let them fall into his filthy, ripped jeans. They fogged his glasses, and his shoulders shook with the force of his sobs. But he was quiet; he’d learned that skill long ago. Even Snape’s bat-hearing wouldn’t pick up these soft hiccups.

Harry cried for a long time, until his eyes ached as much as his temples and his thighs were drenched with his tears. The words on those scattered pieces of parchment seemed to make all the more real how very alone he was. It was like all those nights of being locked in his cupboard came flooding back at once, reminding him that he was unloved and unlovable, and that no matter how hard he tried, his family would still want to lock him away and forget about him. It was an aloneness he hadn’t felt since before Hogwarts, and that seemed to make it bite all the more.

Maybe it was because here were three people who he’d thought were _different_ , who knew the real him—not the hooligan Potter boy who went to St. Brutus’, not resident celebrity Harry Potter. Maybe it wasn’t them, though. Maybe it was Harry. Maybe he was arrogant and unbearable, and expected everyone to automatically like him.

Exhausted and head throbbing, Harry dragged himself off the floor and up onto the bare mattress of the bed. His clothes were filthy—hell, _he_ was filthy. And he certainly wasn’t stupid enough to risk showering when Snape’s room was just down the hall.

He’d sleep, he decided. As much as he could. And he’d set his internal clock for early in the morning, when the Potions Master was likely to be in his own bed. And then… well, if he washed up downstairs, Snape likely wouldn’t be disturbed. He could scrub up quick with water from the sink in the kitchen, and then maybe scrub his clothes out as well. As long as there was a fire in the hearth, he could probably lay them out to dry. Sure, they wouldn’t be perfectly dried out by morning, but it would be better than wearing the same crusty clothes for another day. He wouldn’t be able to do his pants, because there was no way in hell he was standing around Snape’s house starkers in the dead of night. He’d deal with that problem some other time, he decided.

Harry spent a few minutes beating out the mattress and trying his best not to sneeze at the clouds of dust that rose up from it. After a little bit he gave up. He shrugged out of his t-shirt, folded it up as best he could into a pillow shape, and tried to make himself comfortable in his new bed. The springs dug into his back, and it was unpleasant to lie there, stinking and shirtless, but it could have been worse, Harry supposed.

At least it wasn’t a cupboard. Or the cellar.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry is still stuck at Snape's house.

Harry figured it was the early hours of the morning when he woke. It was still dark outside his window, with the quarter-moon casting a pale sliver of light down on the bare floor. Harry still felt groggy and miserable, of course. He’d barely slept, and tossed and turned the whole time through fitful dreams and half-nightmares. He was a little hungry from missing dinner, but that was nothing compared to what the ache could be, he knew. It wouldn’t really start to bother him for another day or so, and even then….

Harry was resolute in his decision. He wasn’t going to touch a scrap of food until the man fully understood that Harry was no pampered brat, that he could go hungry without complaining—that he was used to it even.

Even so, the satisfaction he felt at the prospect of proving Snape wrong did little to make him feel physically better.

With a groan, Harry dragged himself off of the mattress, running his hands over his bare arms in an effort to generate a little heat. He was surprisingly chilled, and wasn’t looking forward to going without his shirt or trousers until morning.

But he couldn’t stand the thought of another day in those filthy clothes—the same clothes he’d worn when they’d taken him to be booked, in fact. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to ask Snape if anyone had bothered to pick up his things, or even for a simple cleaning charm. He’d rather give Voldemort a bear hug. In fact, embracing the evil son-of-a-bitch seemed a lot less daunting than broaching any topic with Snape.

Suppressing a groan, Harry collected his shirt and crept as quietly as he could out of his room, pausing at the threshold of his door to listen. Nothing. The house was quiet. A quick glance down the stairs told him that Snape was likely in bed, given how dark it was down there. Fortunately, the hearth still seemed to be burning. Snape hadn’t banked it, it seemed, judging by the glow and faint crackle that Harry could make out as he slipped down the stairs.

Harry kept his eyes sharp and his ears pricked for any slight creak or sign of movement. He knew he didn’t want Snape to catch him out of bed at this hour; there would be hell to pay.

Everything seemed quiet and still, so Harry carefully crossed through the sitting room, dirty shirt clutched against his chest. Once he was in the kitchen, though, he cursed himself. It was dark, almost pitch-black, with just a little moonlight—hardly enough to see by. Well, he thought, he’d have to muddle through. He cast one last glance back toward the stairs before shimmying out of his jeans and taking everything to the sink.

At the Dursleys’, he’d usually be able to sneak a quick load through the washer in the basement. Here, though, he knew he’d have to make do with an inferior hand-wash, and no soap.

Well, he thought, it was mostly to get the sweat and stink out of the fabric. It wasn’t like he was taking tea with the Queen.

Harry ran the water for a solid three or so minutes, but it soon became apparent that it wasn’t going to get the least bit hot, or lose any more of its evil-smelling tinge. So without further ado Harry dumped shirt and jeans into the sink and took to scrubbing them as vigorously as he could under the frigid water, with nothing but his hand. After a minute, he reluctantly bent down and peeled off his socks as well, though that put his bare feet into contact with the wood floor. As if he needed any more discomfort, currently standing practically bare in Snape’s kitchen, of all places.

Harry scrubbed at his sopping clothes for a good ten minutes, but he was too tired and cold to make much of an effort. Eventually he just gave up. He barely had the energy to wring out each item as thoroughly as possible over the sink. They still stank, he thought, and he certainly hadn’t done much for the accumulated filth from the day’s work (and the lawncare he’d done for the Dursleys before his arrest). But they were marginally better, he decided as he trudged into the sitting room. There he laid them out carefully before the hearth, not daring to hang even his socks from the mantel. The less he disturbed Snape’s home, he thought, the better. Besides, the warm stone hearth might be better for drying them anyway.

In the meantime, Harry decided to try to wash up a bit. He’d see about having a shower in the morning (though he wasn’t about to count on that, not with Snape’s mood the previous night). But for now, he knew he’d sleep a little better if he felt cleaner. And he knew he could make do with a sink, after all the times Petunia had decided to punish Harry for some infraction or another by cutting off his access to their shower. She’d told him in no uncertain terms that for the duration he was to use the garden hose or nothing, but she, like her husband and son, was a sound sleeper. And though Harry hadn’t dared slip into the bathroom in the middle of the night, he’d made free use of the kitchen sink and dish soap.

No dish soap now, he thought bitterly, but that wasn’t to be helped. Bloody wizards and their bloody wands… no need for electricity, no need for soap, no need for cleaning supplies.

He flinched at the first splash of cold water against his skin. He tried to be careful as he used cupped hands to transfer it from the faucet, so as not to spill anything. He had no towels whatsoever, and he doubted Snape would be pleased to find his kitchen floor dripping wet the next morning. It was slow, unpleasant work, scrubbing down that way. By the time Harry had hit all the essential areas, he was damp and covered in gooseflesh.

Why the hell hadn’t he grabbed a towel from the bathroom? Sure, he didn’t want to risk using the facilities and waking Snape, but surely he could have snatched a towel, at the very least.

He rubbed his hands over his bare arms once more, knowing from before that it would scarcely do any good. He couldn’t go to bed like this, he thought. He’d better sit in front of the fire for a bit—better that way, anyway. If he went back upstairs to grab a towel, there was more chance that a loose floorboard would wake Snape, and he was in no state to bring the man’s wrath down on his head. He could kip a bit by the hearth, and plan on waking after a few hours, at which point he could take his (hopefully mostly dried) clothing and slip back upstairs, leaving no evidence behind of his nocturnal activities. The last thing he needed was for Snape to come down the next morning, see his clothes, and throw some kind of fit. Or decide that Harry had notched up his attention-seeking behavior.

He was just about to head back to the sitting room when he heard the creak of footsteps on the stairs. Instinctively, he searched for a place to hide. The shadowed space to the other side of the fridge seemed like his best option, though it hardly provided any cover. Still, Harry wedged himself far enough back and held still enough that he thought he might pass unnoticed if it came to it.

Harry held his breath and listened carefully as the footsteps paused, presumably at the landing of the stairs. He caught a muttered oath of some sort—though the words were indistinguishable. Great. Well, Snape was bound to be even more pissed in the morning for whatever reason. Harry’s nasty clothes laying out? His utter lack of respect, leaving his things all over the house? His sneaking around in the dead of night? Oh, Harry couldn’t wait to find out.

The footsteps resumed, creaking across the wooden floor of the sitting room, slowly growing louder and louder.

Harry closed his eyes and started praying that Snape would just go back to bed.

No such luck. Harry went absolutely rigid as Snape’s figure loomed into sight, his wand before him casting a blue-white glow into the kitchen. The man walked forward at an even pace, scanning the room, even glancing under the table, before the wandlight moved far enough to the right to fall on Harry.

Surprisingly enough, Snape just stared at him for a moment, dumbstruck, one brow arched in confusion, as if he could not possibly comprehend the scene before him.

Self-consciously, Harry wrapped his arms over his torso. He wanted to say something, anything, to explain away the situation, but he knew that those words didn’t exist. So he kept quiet and waited.

Finally, Snape spoke, his voice low and harsh—though, surprisingly, more bewildered than angry. “What the hell are you doing, Potter?”

Harry swallowed thickly and did his best to square his shoulders. “Washing up, sir.”

Snape stared at him for a long moment, his wand still glowing and leveled at Harry’s chest. “You are aware of the modern marvel the _shower_ , yes?” he demanded at last, the words snide.

“Pipes are loud,” Harry muttered, averting his gaze to the ground.

“So avail yourself of the facilities at a reasonable hour, not at two in the morning!” Snape raged, brandishing his wand a little to accentuate his words. “Or are you so stupid as to believe that I actually enjoy having a filthy teenager stinking up my home?”

Harry couldn’t stop his skin from flushing at that. How was he to know that Snape wouldn’t go ballistic if he’d tried to take a shower after being dismissed and told to keep out of sight?

“Or maybe,” Snape continued, voice pitching toward something of a snarl, “you merely decided that you were hungry after all, and thought to fix yourself something in the middle of the night?”

Harry stared flatly at the man, willing his temper to abate. He really wanted to just shout at the man that he was a perfect idiot, that here Harry was, cold and wet and half-naked, and not a speck of food in sight. He was pretty certain Snape got off somehow on believing the worst of Harry at all times.

Polite. That would piss Snape off more than anything, he reminded himself. Harry Bloody Potter not acting like an entitled little bastard would be the surest way to dig at the Potions Master. “No, sir. I was sent to bed without supper.”

Snape’s mouth tightened, but not with fury, as Harry had expected. Rather, it was as though he knew that Harry hadn’t helped himself to anything—ha, probably had alarm spells set up just for that purpose.

Before Harry could register the motion, Snape flicked his wand at Harry once, contemptuously. A gust of warm air seemed to engulf him, warming his skin and evaporating the last traces of water.

“Idiot,” Snape growled. “It is a miracle you are capable of dressing yourself in the morning.”

Harry knew better than to attempt to respond to that. Instead he waited as patiently as he could, eyes on the ground in front of him, as Snape continued to stare at him.

“I suppose it’s too much to hope that you are up because of a guilty conscience, and have decided to divulge where you have stashed your neighbor’s property?”

Harry went stiff as a corpse. He was supposed to have until morning to work this all out, before Snape started making good on his threats. God, what if he started now? What if he pulled out the photo album and started pitching photos into the fire, one by one, in hopes of getting Harry to fess up?

No, the man didn’t even have Harry’s trunk here, did he? So maybe he had a little more time. Maybe Snape would try other tactics first and build up to destroying Harry’s most prized possessions as a grand finale.

But hell, what could Harry possibly say? Denying his guilt would just whip Snape back into a froth, and that was the last thing he needed right now. It was probably best that he play meek and cowed right now, he decided. “No, sir,” he mumbled.

Snape stared at him long and hard for a moment, as if he could get Harry to confess by force of his glare alone. Finally, Snape lowered his wand and stepped back, a growl of displeasure in his throat. “Get back to bed,” he commanded coldly. “Clean up the mess you left in the sitting room as well. And Merlin help you if I catch you creeping about at this hour again.” Snape whipped around and stalked off, his dressing gown flagging behind him.

Harry watched him go, waiting until the man had tromped back up the stairs before he allowed himself to sag back with relief. Whatever he’d been expecting, a glare and a few stern words—if you could even call them that—had not been it. Maybe Snape was just tired and wanted to go back to bed. Maybe he didn’t care to deal with Harry just yet.

Whatever it was, Harry was certainly counting his blessings.

Harry gathered his drying clothes from in front of the hearth. Miraculously, they were dry. For a moment, Harry suspected that Snape had cast a Drying Charm on them as well, but immediately dismissed that idea as ridiculous. Because yes, Severus Snape would wander down in the middle of the night to find Harry’s filthy, damp clothing everywhere, and his reaction to that would be to _dry it_. It was a miracle the man hadn’t incinerated it on sight.

Well. Enough tempting fate for one night, Harry decided, and slipped up the stairs and back into the bedroom. He was struggling into the then-dry (and surprisingly clean) jeans when a loud pop emanated throughout the room, followed by a dull thud at the end of his bed.

Harry blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. It was—his trunk? He knelt down in front of it, ran his hand over the front. No padlock. He unlatched the lid and peered inside, and there, lo and behold, were all of his things—his Dursley clothing, his robes, a pile of last year’s school books, a myriad of quills. He cast it all aside, one thing on his mind. He dug and dug until he hit the corner where he knew it should be, and when his fingers brushed the cover he sighed in deep relief.

Carefully, lovingly, he lifted the album out of the trunk and flipped it open. They were all there, every last photo of his mum and dad smiling at him. Every precious piece of them that he had left. Harry brushed a finger over one of his parents on their wedding day. His mother’s eyes shone bright with happiness; his father’s were crinkled around the edges, and he seemed unable to pry them away from his bride. Occasionally, his father would pull his mother into a quick kiss, as if he just couldn’t help himself.

He had to hide this. Not tonight, but tomorrow sometime. He had to put it where Snape wouldn’t think to find it, and where it couldn’t be summoned—or, at least, not easily. Nowhere in this room, or even in the house. Maybe Snape didn’t know it existed yet. Harry would have to hope that was the case for the next day. Probably Snape would start with his broomstick, thinking of Harry’s love of Quidditch.

The shed. Snape wouldn’t think to look there, would he? Harry could smuggle the album out, and find a way to bury it beneath a few heavy objects so that a Summoning Charm would be all but useless. And that would do until he could access Hedwig again— _if_ he ever could. But if Hedwig found him somehow, then he could package the album up and send it to Ron or Hermione for safe-keeping, until he was no longer in Snape’s care.

Harry closed the album and hugged it briefly to his chest. He didn’t like having to wait, but it was just too risky to try to sneak the thing out tonight. He would do it the next day, as soon as he could. For the moment… he replaced the album in his trunk and buried it all the way at the bottom, where it would hopefully remain unnoticed.

Harry pulled out a t-shirt and pajama bottoms, grateful to have something a bit more comfortable to wear. He was too tired to even question why Snape had given him his trunk after that little scene downstairs. Maybe so that Harry couldn’t complain about being deprived of clothing? Not that he had, after all….

Harry piled clothing onto the mattress and curled up, his eyes already slipping back shut. Yeah, definitely too tired to puzzle Snape out. He’d contemplate it all in the morning.

XXXXX

Morning came too quickly. The first crack of sunlight into the narrow bedroom pierced through Harry’s eyelids like a volley of needles, and had him flopping over and groaning deeply into his makeshift pillow, one of his Weasley jumpers.

He wanted to just close his eyes and forget about everything—about Snape, about his upcoming hearing for a felony he hadn’t committed, about the letters that were still strewn across the ground. But he knew that if he didn’t manage to drag himself out of bed, and quickly, Snape would likely turn up and rouse him the most unpleasant way possible. Harry imagined an _aguamenti_ would be the least of his worries.

So, with the same discipline Harry had used to survive summers and early life at the Dursleys, Harry forced himself to sit up and stretch his stiff, sore body. It wasn’t going to be a good day. But he’d soldier through; at least he had experience with that.

Harry rubbed at his aching, sleep-crusted eyes, concentrating all his willpower on keeping himself conscious. Another monumental effort of will and he managed to drag himself to his feet, and then to pull on an oversized, fraying jumper from Dudley and a pair of hand-me-down, loose-fitting jeans. He would take a shower if he had time (he doubted he would). Likely Snape was already up and preparing to ream out the Boy Who Lived’s sorry arse.

Harry padded down the stairs, a strange feeling surging up in him as he passed the now-banked fireplace. How _had_ his clothes gotten dry last night? And why in the hell had Snape sent him his trunk after their row, not to mention him catching Harry creeping about like a thief in the night? If his aunt or uncle had ever caught him like that (and they had, Harry remembered vividly), they would have wasted no time at all teaching him not to be a sneaking bastard.

Harry shook his head to himself. It didn’t matter. It changed nothing.

The kitchen was empty when Harry reached it. A quick glance down the stairs that led to the cellar proved that to be equally unoccupied. Curious, Harry headed back up the stairs, making certain to keep his footsteps light. The door at the end of the hall was shut firmly; Harry presumed it was Snape’s bedroom, given the apparent lack of other rooms in the house.

A spike of adrenaline surged through Harry. Now—now might be his chance. If he was quick and stealthy…. He hurried back into the room he’d been given and retrieved the album from his trunk, tossing out every item burying it haphazardly and leaving them to lie on the ground. He wasted no time in tucking it beneath his jumper.

A furtive glance out into the hall found it empty, and thankfully devoid of any signs of Snape. Harry rushed straight down the stairs, through the sitting room and kitchen, and out the back door, praying fervently that his luck would hold.

Upon reaching the shed, he immediately set to clearing a place to stash the album. As he moved rusted-out paint cans and rusted tools with half-rotted handles, he made a mental note to ask for Hermione’s help spelling his album with protections upon returning to school. Things to keep water and spills off of it, things to keep it from being burned by fire… Hermione would know. She was clever like that.

After a few minutes Harry had successfully ensconced the album beneath a prison of paint cans, rusted hunks of rusted, unidentifiable metal, and a ripped tarp for good measure. Now he would just have to hope that no pests got to it, and that the yard wouldn’t flood or the shed leak too badly during a rainstorm.

Harry’s stomach rumbled again, drawing his attention back to the dull, uncomfortable ache. Part of him wanted to just go in and sneak a bit of breakfast, just as he would at the Dursleys. But he knew that if he did that, Snape would find out, and that would make the man smug as hell. And Harry’s pride, what little of it there was left, could not stand that thought.

So Harry decided on his alternate course of action. He would shower, dress, and then… then he would find something productive to distract him. Likely the yard, since that seemed to be his next “project”.

The shower was, once again, lukewarm at best. But at least there was soap, enough that Harry felt cleaner once he stepped out to dry off. And changing into fresh clothes after that was practically heaven.

He still felt the dull ache of a sleepless night behind his eyes, but that was something that he’d certainly managed to fight off before. Especially when his aunt seemed to be in a particularly sadistic mood and had a long list of chores for him to complete, with most tasks needing to be redone two or three times until the woman was satisfied with his work. Eventually he would catch up and everything would even out, Harry knew. He just had to stick it out until then.

So he trudged down the stairs and out in to the damp, chilly morning air of the yard, where he started dragging plants out of the ground one by one, alternating pulling weeds with collecting stray bits of rubbish. After a while he managed to settle into the comfortable monotony of the task.

It was some time after that that Harry heard the back door creak open behind him. He pretended that he hadn’t. Maybe, he thought, Snape would allow him a few more precious moments before tearing into him. Before…. Harry had to swallow past the sudden lump in his throat. It was just a broom, he told himself. And the cloak… the cloak meant a lot to him, yeah, but he’d hidden his album. His only memories of his parents were safe, and that was what counted.

“Potter.”

Harry flinched a little at the sharp address. So much for a little more time. He turned, being certain to keep his posture as respectful as possible. “Sir?” he inquired neutrally, which came out dull and monotone.

Snape was dressed in his usual teaching robes, his arms folded tightly over his chest. “What are you doing?”

Harry fought the urge to close his eyes and block the man out. “Yardwork, sir.”

“I take it you helped yourself to breakfast?”

Harry almost smirked. So Snape wanted to know if he’d caved, did he? “No, sir.”

“I sincerely hope that you are not waiting for me to fix you something,” Snape snarled.

Harry once again reached for that dull monotone. “No, sir.”

Snape’s mouth opened briefly, then snapped shut, as though he’d been about to say something but had thought better of it. “Have you decided to stop acting like a spoilt, petulant child and return that woman’s possessions?”

Here it came. Harry averted his gaze to the ground and murmured a far more deferential, “No, sir.” Not that he thought his tone would make one lick of difference in what was to follow.

“Something you wish to tell me, Potter?”

 _Yes, but your head’s stuck too far up your arse for me to hope you’d listen_. Harry shook his head instead.

Snape sighed heavily. “I suppose maturity and a sense of responsibility are a bit much to ask of you. Very well.”

Harry tried to brace himself. He would buy a new broomstick, he told himself. He had enough money, probably. Not for a Firebolt, but he could still get a decent model. And he still had his pictures. They were hidden and safe, and there was no guarantee that Snape even knew about that album. And if he burned the Map… well, it had never been his to begin with. And Snape would be far more likely to keep that for himself, anyway. Right? Though it was debatable whether forfeiting it to Snape would be any better than seeing it burned.

“Until you can have the decency to fess up, you will be working on the most arduous, unpleasant tasks I can possibly dream up. You will have a list each day, displayed on the fridge, of chores to complete. If you fail to get through them, or you fail to do them properly, the consequences will be dire. I will allow you a more reasonable schedule as soon as you’ve had a change of heart. Clear, boy?”

Harry bit back a relieved laugh. More chores? He could handle that. Hell, he’d _expected_ that. “Yes, sir,” he agreed, hoping that he did not sound too eager.

Snape’s lip curled into a snarl, which likely meant that Harry had sounded just a little too pleased. “You can start with the gutters. There should be a ladder in the shed. And once you have finished that, you can start on the project of redoing the roof. And don’t worry, Potter, I will be certain to provide adequate instruction, though I doubt you will be able to follow—”

“I’ve done a roof before, sir,” Harry couldn’t help but snap, anger washing through him before he could get ahold of himself. He thought of all the time he’d spent sweating up on the Dursley’s roof, of how many times he’d managed to slam his own fingers in the sweltering sun. Of his dear family telling all the neighbors that he was learning the trade, that it was perfectly all right for such a young boy to be undertaking such a thing, that he really needed the experience because even hoping that he might acquire some kind of trade skill was almost laughable, because their poor nephew was so very inept.

So inept that he’d been loaned out to the neighbor to help the professional roofers with the job, so that the neighbors could pay the Dursleys a tidy sum for Harry’s help. And the stupid neighbor woman had patted Harry on the head when the job was finished and instructed him not to spend his earnings “all in one place”.

Snape merely rolled his eyes. “I highly doubt it. The ladder is in the shed. Hop to it.” And with that the man disappeared with a swirl of his robes.

Harry sighed. It could have been worse, he reminded himself. Much, much worse. Still, he was not looking forward to the gutters or the roof or whatever other horrendous tasks Snape could dream up for him. As it was, this… this was nothing out of the ordinary.


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry decides to try out a hunger-strike.

By midday Harry had finished with the gutters and started to tear the shingles off the roof. He’d found a suitable implement in the shed, some kind of metal bar that also functioned to pry up the old nails. He had no idea where he would get the rest of the materials required for the job, nor did he care. Snape could figure that out. He would just keep his mind busy with his task, and focus on not slipping down the slant of the roof to the ground below.

It was hard labor, just as hard as Harry had remembered. At least this time there was no Uncle Vernon looming below, shouting instructions and criticisms every few minutes. Snape, he knew, would have been _much_ worse than Vernon. The man could strip hide with his verbal barbs.

By midday he was hot and aching, drenched in sweat and dirtied from the tar shingles. His head throbbed from a lack of water and sleep both, and his stomach positively throbbed from the conspicuous absence of food. He had just eased himself into a position where he could rest his head slightly against his arms, a small but blessed reprieve, when he heard Snape’s harsh voice.

“Potter!”

He stiffened, feeling the price of that reaction in his already-sore muscles. Slowly, carefully, he turned around to face the man, who was standing at the base of the house, arms folded over his chest.

“Sir?” he called down as politely as he could through his gritted teeth.

“I believe I ordered you to do the gutters first—”

“I did do the gutters, sir,” Harry hissed, fighting once again to maintain control over his sheer rage. “You’re welcome to inspect them. Thought I might as well get started up here, before you decide I’m moving too slowly—”

“Watch your tone, boy!” the man spat. “It’s time for lunch. Get down here, and do _try_ not to break your neck while climbing down from there.”

And with that he disappeared into the house once more.

Harry sighed in genuine relief. He would need some water if he were to continue with his work into the afternoon. At least it would be a touch cooler in the house, and out of the glaring sun, and off of the heat-absorbing black tar tiles.

The kitchen was empty when Harry reached it. Once again, he briefly contemplated ending his self-imposed fast and sneaking a bit of food. But the thought of Snape winning—of him gloating, in fact, about Prince Potter’s weakness—had him once steeling his resolve. He settled for a few glasses of the murky tap water, sipped slowly as to not upset his empty stomach. He sat quietly at the table, judging the time as he always had at the Dursleys, using his own gut instincts to measure how long he could possibly skive before Snape swept back in and started barking insults and threats at him.

Thirty minutes later and he was climbing back up onto the roof, his thoughts forcibly focused on the vast majority of de-shingling that he had yet to do. Idly, he wondered how long Snape would give him to complete this task. The man had seemed genuinely surprised that Harry had already managed the filthy gutters. He’d found an old, blunted spade in the shed, half rusted but suitable for scooping out the detritus. There had even been a sorry-looking garden hose attached to the back of the house, and after some finagling had managed to flush the gutters out. He doubted Snape could find a real complaint with the job he’d done (though he was certain the man would invent half a dozen).

But Snape hadn’t even checked his work. Harry shrugged internally. That was fine by him.

XXXXX

Snape called Harry down again in the later half of the afternoon. Harry was certain it was for the man to yell about the mess Harry had left on his lawn. Not that he didn’t fully intend to gather up all of the discarded shingles and dispose of them. Besides, it wasn’t like there was anywhere else to throw them. But Harry still remembered vividly how much Vernon had hated that part of the job, how he’d hounded Harry to keep picked up after himself so that the yard wouldn’t be seen in such a disarray. That had translated into frequent trips up and down from the roof in order to continually clear away the accumulation of debris.

Well. Harry was sore and exhausted enough that he could simply retreat into himself and weather out whatever lecture or screaming Snape had prepared.

Snape, however, did not look to be preparing to deliver a lecture. His face was strangely blank as he stared Harry down, arms folded over his chest once more. “Well?” he demanded tiredly, the single syllable declaring how very tedious he found Harry.

Harry swallowed thickly, willing what little was left of his congealed saliva to grant him the power of speech. Even so, his voice came out hoarse and scratchy. “I planned on tidying up after I’ve taken everything off, sir—”

“No, you stupid boy—I mean, have you decided to come clean?”

Harry averted his eyes to the ground. “No, sir.”

Snape did not even deign to make a scathing comment. “Perhaps you would care to explain to me why you are refusing?”

Harry’s head snapped up at the level inquiry. There was no accusation there, no hidden insult, just genuine curiosity. He opened his mouth to say that he didn’t _know_ , because he hadn’t actually committed the crime, but closed it again right quick. His brain was sun-baked, he decided, if he believed on any level that Severus Snape would consider him genuine for even a moment. So instead he muttered sullenly, “No, sir.”

Snape made a growling sound, one of irritation, one that had Harry instinctively bracing himself for some kind of punishment. But once again the man surprised him. He did not accuse Harry of putting on some act, or of being selfish or deluded or imbecilic. Instead, he merely announced tightly, “Dinner is on the stove.”

“Yes, sir.” Harry waited for Snape to retreat once more, but the Potions Master merely gestured for Harry to precede him into the house.

Harry retrieved another glass of water from the sink. He plonked himself down in one of the hard kitchen chairs and went back to nursing the water as he had before, allowing himself little sips only, in spite of his burning thirst. He tried to ignore the scent of stew that permeated the whole kitchen, as well as the pot and ladle and loaf of bread sat out on the counter.

Instead, he focused on tracing the pattern of the wood grain on the table before him.

He flinched at the sound of chair legs scraping against the wooden floor, and then at the hard clunk of dinnerware settling onto the table. Why in the hell was Snape joining him? Didn’t the man have better things to do?

“Is my cooking not good enough for you, Potter?” the man sneered.

Harry forced himself to draw a calming breath. _Polite_ , he reminded himself. Even if holding back all the screaming and insults seemed to require a herculean effort. “I’m certain it’s fine, sir.” And he took a small sip of water just after that for good measure.

“And yet you are not eating, though you’ve received the invitation you’ve insisted upon.”

 _In through the nose, out through the mouth. Focus on the sense of your lungs expanding and collapsing, your shoulders rising and falling…._ Remarkable, how much that snippet of some yoga program had gotten Harry through over the years. Something that had been on the telly in the early hours of the morning once. He’d managed to watch about ten minutes or so before Aunt Petunia had caught wind of “that foreign nonsense” and switched programs. And then rounded on Harry to berate him for his laziness.

Another deep breath and Harry felt composed once more. “I thought, sir, that you couldn’t care less whether I ate or not.”

Ha. That certainly provoked the Potions Master. Harry swore a vein popped in the man’s neck even as he noted a jaw muscle ticking. “I don’t know what you hope to gain by this pathetic little show of yours, Potter, but believe me when I say I’ve no tolerance for this childishness. If you wish to starve yourself, fine—”

“I would hardly call a missed meal ‘starvation’, sir,” Harry interjected softly, a deep sense of satisfaction blossoming in the pit of his stomach. It was almost enough to dissipate the very real hunger. Almost.

“ _A_ missed meal? Oh, no, this is going on four—”

“I didn’t think that you would notice, Professor,” Harry interrupted again, managing to keep his voice level and reasonable. “Or care, for that matter.”

“What do you hope to gain, hm? Do you think that the headmaster will blame me for _your_ foolish stunt?”

Mention of Dumbledore had Harry’s hackles up immediately. He raised his eyes to meet Snape’s gaze squarely, his hand tightening around his glass. His voice went cold and dead. “The headmaster isn’t going to trouble himself over my health, sir. As long as I’m alive at the end of the summer I’m certain he’ll be satisfied. Now, may I be excused? I’ve work to do.”

Harry swore he saw something other than contempt in Snape’s black eyes—but it was just a flash, there and gone in an instant. Likely imagined.

“Oh, you’re excused, but you will go to your room to consider this attitude. You may come out as soon as you’ve decided to stop behaving like a sulking toddler and eat your dinner.”

Harry needed no further invitation. In fact, he barely managed to repress an amused snort. Last night he’d been sent to bed without dinner as punishment. Now he was being sent to bed _until_ he ate dinner. Well, he wouldn’t let it concern him. He would be all too happy to turn in early for the night.

Though with his luck Snape would change his mind after a few hours and haul him back downstairs to continue work on the roof. Though at least working in the evening would be far more pleasant. Less hot, for one, and the stars would be out. That would be almost peaceful, Harry decided.

Deciding to rub just a bit more salt in the wound, Harry summoned up the most subdued tone he could muster to reply, “Yes, sir.” He rose, intending to hurry up the stairs as fast as he could while maintaining his dignity, but Snape’s cold, scathing voice cut him off.

“Shower before you go anywhere near my bed linens.”

Harry stumbled. That sounded—was Snape purposely informing him that he had permission to shower, despite being confined to his room? But… no, that was ludicrous. The remark could likely be taken at face value, especially given the man’s earlier comments about Harry’s stench.

Though really, Snape could have just told him to stay on the floor. Aunt Petunia would have done just that.

Well, perhaps Snape was just a touch more decent than Harry’s aunt. Not that Petunia set the bar very high.

One quick shower later, Harry was lying on top of the bare mattress, chortling to himself bitterly. He’d spread out one of his school robes to use as a blanket, and his old Weasley jumper was still wadded behind his head. He should have asked Snape what bed linens he was referring to, since he hadn’t been allowed so much as a blanket.

Well, it didn’t matter. He was comfortable enough, and Snape hadn’t taken his trunk away yet, and even better, the Potions Master had not even hinted at burning his broom as punishment for his defiance. And even bare, the mattress beneath him was comfortable, a blessed relief for his aching body.

It was not long before Harry sank into the welcoming embrace of sleep.

XXXXX

Harry was up long before dawn. After sitting quietly on his bed for some time, debating the state of Snape’s temper in his mind, he decided that he’d do better to risk it by going out and continuing his list of tasks than by lazing around any longer. So after dressing in fresh clothes (such a luxury after that first miserable night) he crept down the stairs and into the kitchen.

No sign of Snape. No lingering scent of breakfast or coffee or tea, no sign that anyone had disturbed the room in the last twelve hours. So Harry dared to hope that Snape was still sleeping. The sun wouldn’t rise for another hour or so, he judged.

He fetched himself a glass of water, once again ignoring the dull ache of his stomach. He would hold out as long as he possibly could, he decided, and show Snape just how delicate and pampered he was. At least it seemed to be irking the man. It would have been so much harder to keep himself from caving if the Potions Master hadn’t been bothered in the least. And really, there were so few ways that he was willing to nettle Snape. He had to make the most of this.

Because really, what was the man going to do to punish him for not eating? Threaten more chores? It wasn’t as if Snape was going to lay a hand on him, not if he was concerned that Dumbledore would take issue with Harry merely being a little underfed.

Well, Harry amended, the man wouldn’t lay hands on him for that because it would come off as unjustifiable. Other offenses might easily be excused if Harry genuinely provoked the man, which he had sworn to himself he would not do.

Harry fetched himself a glass of water and once again forced himself to sip it slowly. He could tell that he was more than a little dehydrated from the lingering throbbing headache that was just shy of skull-splitting. The water would help. He would take an hour to rehydrate, and then he would see about starting on his assigned chores. The list was likely still up from the previous day.

After all, it wouldn’t do to give Snape a ready-made excuse to mete out further punishment.

As he sipped his second glass of water, Harry scanned down the parchment he’d found affixed to the refrigerator. He very nearly snorted to himself as he scanned over Snape’s cramped scrawl. Gutters, redo roof, plant and fertilize garden beds, sort flobberworms…. No cruel and unusual punishment, just his typical summer, though this time contending with Snape’s ire rather than his aunt and uncle’s loathing and his cousin’s bullying. Hell, this was nearly an improvement, since there was no chance of Dudley and friends interrupting him or injuring him or purposely sabotaging his work.

And here he’d thought that Snape would somehow dredge up some truly awful tasks. Apparently the man was all bark and no bite.

Harry replaced the list on the fridge and headed out to the roof, deciding that it would be best if he could pry up as much as possible before the hottest hours of the day. If he could push himself in the mornings, then he could take things at a slower pace during the hours that the sun was at its peak. He wished he knew how long Snape was giving him before instating the afore-mentioned “dire consequences”.

But Harry knew from years of experience that having a deadline would do him no good. He would just push himself as much as he could stand and pray that it was, by some miracle, fast enough for the powers that be.

He’d managed two more rows of shingles by the time he heard the door to the back open.

“Potter!”

Harry sighed to himself. “Yes, sir?” he inquired evenly. Here it came. Snape had decided that Harry was _not_ allowed out of his room without permission, and now he was about to lay into the Boy Who Lived’s sorry hide.

There was a pause, then Snape’s cold, even voice demanding, “Have you had breakfast?”

Harry smiled grimly to himself, only because Snape could not possibly see him. “Of course, sir.” He hoped that Snape could hear the blatant lie in those words.

“No, you have _not_ ,” the man retorted sharply. “Get down here at once and stop playing this foolish game. You’ll get no sympathy from me, and I will not have you fainting because you are too stupid to feed yourself—”

“Oh, I won’t faint, sir,” Harry replied, forcing as much false cheer into his voice that he could. “Not as long as I drink enough water, and I have been, don’t worry.”

“Potter! That was not a request, it was an order! Get down here now, before I levitate you!”

God, why was it so much fun goading Snape? More importantly, why was the man so hung up on this issue? Harry had honestly expected him to grudgingly see that Harry was no stranger to lean times, but never actually… well, nearly _panic_ about things.

“Yes, sir.” Harry complied, carefully making his way down the ladder and turning to face a livid Snape.

The man’s visage was nearly taut and blanched with rage. “I have _had it_ with your insolence,” he hissed. “You will go and eat a reasonable meal this instant—”

“Or?” Harry couldn’t help but inquire. _Stupid_ , he chided himself, but it was still too much fun, seeing Snape this out-of-sorts. But really, what could the man do? Harry was guilty and unrepentant in his eyes, and nothing that Harry did could possibly change that. And Harry was still banking that Snape would not want to explain to Dumbledore that he’d beaten Harry for not eating.

“Or you will suffer the consequences—”

“More chores?” Harry scoffed. “Or—hm, bed without a meal? Though I suppose that would defeat the purpose. Maybe you’ll just send me to my room again, though I wouldn’t think that rewarding me by letting me get out of work would be the way to go either.”

“Potter, you are treading on thin ice—”

“No,” Harry interrupted, “I’m not. I’ve already fallen through. You hate me, you’re disgusted by me, and you’re going to punish me as thoroughly as you possibly can regardless of what I do or don’t do. So just let me get back to it, will you? Unless you think you’ve found something worse than baking in the sun up there all day—”

“You do your tasks without complaint,” Snape began suddenly, his voice losing its edge. Now he sounded more like a detective listing off puzzling evidence. “And you do them well, I admit. You do not slack, you do not whine, you do not complain. You write a letter expressing genuine remorse. Yet you refuse, outright, to surrender that woman’s possessions. Yet you are deliberately starving yourself, an action that hurts no one but yourself. So tell me, Potter, what am I missing? What is the purpose behind this all? Why behave at all if you are going to defy me in this?”

Harry opened his mouth to launch into a scathing retort, one about being guilty until proven innocent amongst other things. But he snapped it shut again. He wasn’t going to bother. Snape wouldn’t believe him, and had already declared as much, so it would be a waste of breath and energy, energy he desperately needed for later. Instead, he replied bitingly, “I don’t know, sir. This is the first time in my life I’ve missed a meal, after all. Maybe it’s scrambled my brain.”

Harry watched as Snape’s face tightened further. But he didn’t think it was with rage. It was—strange. Almost… almost fear? Or something like fear. Harry couldn’t quite place it.

And then Snape spoke quietly. “Go eat breakfast, Potter.”

Harry matched the man’s tone and volume. “No thank you, sir. May I continue with my work?”

Snape stared at him for a long moment after that. His gaze flickered, briefly, up to the roof. “No. If you will not eat and will not explain yourself to me, you can return to your room until you’ve decided to be sensible.”

Harry snorted. “So as long as I disobey you, I don’t have to do any work?”

“Fine,” the Potions Master snapped, his dark eyes flashing. “Go on, go punish yourself further. Starve—”

“Muggles can go for three weeks without food, sir,” Harry offered calmly. “I’m a wizard, and it hasn’t even been two days. Don’t you think you’re overreacting?”

“Very well, continue with this self-imposed misery. Continue to deprive yourself for no other reason than to bolster your own sense of moral superiority. You are proving nothing, Potter, but by all means, do continue to play the suffering martyr.”

Harry nearly laughed. Clearly he _was_ proving something, if Snape felt the need to go off on him like this. The man was positively flustered. “Thank you, sir.” And without another word Harry climbed back up onto the roof.

Yes, he was definitely suffering, but it all seemed worthwhile to have discomfited the complete arse of a Potions Master.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snape's hand slips over Harry's morning pumpkin juice--or, something like that. And Harry uses some adult language.

Snape returned to the yard several times over the course of the morning. Harry knew because he always heard the door open and shut, and then he would turn to find the man standing, arms crossed over his chest, in the middle of the yard, his frown as dour as ever. He never said anything, though, just watched in silence as Harry stripped shingle after shingle off of the roof.

Each time Harry would shrug to himself and return to his work, feeling uncomfortably self-conscious as he did so. He kept expecting to hear criticisms from below, but Snape never said anything, not even when Harry had to stop a few times to catch his breath and wipe the sheen of sweat from his brow.

Finally, near midday, Snape called to him again. “Potter, come down here.”

Harry sighed to himself. He was grateful for the chance at a break, but he doubted this was going to be pleasant. For all he knew, Snape had spent the morning in contemplation and had finally dreamt up a suitable punishment for Harry’s cheekiness and defiance earlier. Still, he saw no choice but to climb down the ladder and face Snape’s wrath, such as it was.

“I have a proposal for you.”

Harry just blinked at the man, trying to take in those strange words, along with Snape’s perfectly neutral expression. A proposal? What in the bloody hell was this? Had Harry actually passed out from heatstroke and begun hallucinating?

“You will come in and have lunch, and then you will give me a full accounting of what occurred at Privet Drive prior to your arrest. In exchange, you will be allowed to spend the afternoon replying to your mail. Is that agreeable?”

It was more than agreeable, Harry thought. Or, it sounded that way, on its face. But he knew better. Far too good to be true, especially coming from Snape.

In actuality, he knew better than to agree to such a “deal”. He would eat, and then Snape would claim a victory there, and mock poor Prince Potter for his weak resolve and need to be coddled. And then Harry would try to explain _his_ side of the story, only to be shot down and berated by Snape for being an incorrigible liar. And his reward for subjecting himself to that ordeal would be, what, answering the deluge of letters from people he’d thought of as family, trying to explain that he wasn’t actually a nasty little criminal who thought nothing of stealing from the elderly? Or better yet, simply accepting their recriminations and writing letters of apology and self-flagellation in hopes of earning back some of their esteem? How stupid did Snape believe him to be?

“No thank you, sir. May I return to my work now?” In truth, Harry desperately wanted to sit in the kitchen for just a little while with some water, but that did not seem like it would be a possibility. So he would just have to grit his teeth and bear it. The sun would be growing less hot from here on out, anyway, as the day dragged on and it continued steadily toward the horizon.

“Potter,” Snape hissed, “do not be an idiot—”

“Oh, I’m not, sir,” Harry interjected. “If you want to call me a liar, you don’t have to wait for me to try to explain things. And besides, if you’re trying to bribe me, you should choose a reward that I actually might want.”

“Do not try to tell me that you have no desire to answer any of your letters—”

“I don’t,” Harry bit out. “But go ahead, tell me that _of course_ I do. It’s not going to change my answer. Now, can I just get on with the roof? Because I remember you had a whole damned list of things for me to do, and I don’t want you to think I’m trying to get out of it.”

“Go up to your room,” Snape commanded, “now! And you can stay there until you have decided to cooperate!”

Harry knew he should just agree and get out of work for the afternoon, but there seemed to be a little imp whispering in his ear, telling him to push things just a _bit_ further, just to see Snape react. “See, now you’re rewarding me but calling it a punishment. Really, Professor, maybe I’d be more inclined to do as you asked if you could get this whole system straightened out—”

“Your room _now_!” Snape thundered, this time with enough force to cause Harry to cower back.

Harry wasted no more time goading Snape. He hurried in through the kitchen and up the stairs, heart hammering, vision swimming, as his panicked thoughts flashed to all the possible consequences of his recklessness just then. _Too far_ , his brain screamed. _You pushed him too far and now something terrible will happen. He’ll come up here and_ really _punish you, just like Vernon threatened all those times. And he’s a_ wizard _, so don’t think your pathetic accidental magic is going to protect you all that much. He can probably counterspell it or something. You are screwed, screwed, screwed…._

But Snape never came. There was no stomping up the steps, no cursing, no being beaten within an inch of his life. Just the silence of the house, broken only occasionally by the creak of floorboards and the clack of doors from the floor below.

Still, to be safe, Harry huddled in the far corner behind the bed, close enough to the window that he might even be able to slip out it in a pinch. He’d already pried it open a bit.

His heart thudded loudly in his ears as he sat the, legs drawn tight to his chest, head resting against his knees. He’d done this a few times at the Dursleys too, let his mouth run ahead of his brain. Stupid. It never ended well for him. But did he learn? Oh, no, of course not. He had to keep pushing things, just to see how far he could go, just to soothe his stupid, useless pride.

And he was starving too. At the Dursleys it was one thing to go without food when he was being denied. He knew then that trying to sneak something was risky, and that being caught came with a high price. Vernon’s shaking him around, or being locked in his room so that he was really and truly at their mercy. But here? Snape was practically threatening him to get him to eat.

And so what if the Potions Master mocked Harry when he caved? Since when had the man’s sharp tongue bothered him so much? It meant nothing. Snape knew nothing, anyway, so why should Harry even care what he thought? Yes, he’d skipped meals for nothing.

He knew he should just slink downstairs, tail tucked between his legs, and admit as much in order to end this standoff. Even if Snape was still furious and decided to teach Harry a lesson by denying him dinner, just to remind Harry who was in charge, he’d likely be past it by the next day. And then things could go back to—well, not normal, but as normal as they could be.

Until Snape finally truly exploded at Harry for keeping Mrs. Applewhite’s possessions stashed away somewhere. And then things would get ugly again.

But Harry couldn’t bring himself to do that much. To him it felt that he’d already come this far, and already sacrificed this much. He’d might as well see it through, for better or worse, and at least cherish the knowledge that, for a short time and in verbal sparring only, he’d had the upper hand on Snape.

The minutes stretched, and Harry’s abused muscles began to cramp and ache. He shifted positions a few times but eventually gave up and lifted himself onto the bed, where he stretched out and let his eyes drift shut.

Some immeasurable time later he was roused violently from his dozing by a loud, impatient pounding on his door. Groggily, Harry pushed himself into a sitting position just in time to see Snape flinging the bedroom door open, his face set into grim lines.

His expression tightened further when his gaze fell on Harry, his lip lifting in the slightest of contemptuous curls. “Up,” he commanded coolly, his stare pinning Harry. “Go sit at the table and wait for me.”

Harry swiped his finger and thumb over his lids, trying to clear the last crusty bits of sleep away. As it was, he was still too out of it to feel snarky or belligerent. Mostly, he just felt utterly exhausted, as though he could sleep for years and years. “Yessir,” he mumbled indistinctly.

Snape nodded curtly and swept out of the room.

Minutes later Harry was seated at the dining table, his hands laced tightly on his lap so they wouldn’t fidget. He was feeling considerably more awake then, and was terrified that he was about to pay dearly for his earlier insolence.

Snape was looming in the doorway, arms once again over his chest and nearly concealed by the voluminous robes he wore. Harry could feel the Potions Master’s eyes on him, tracking his every movement and likely missing nothing.

At last Snape spoke. “It seems to me that we are at an impasse, Potter. I have a hard time believing a word out of your mouth, and you seem to be equally mistrustful of my ability to recognize the truth. And as I refuse to waste another day waiting for you to offer some kind of explanation for your utterly idiotic behavior, I have a solution to propose.”

Slowly, Snape strode into the room, his pace unhurried and utterly confident. He did not stop until he was standing before Harry, robes drawn over his chest, one hand reaching into a pocket. It reemerged with a tiny crystalline vial that Harry recognized even before Snape named it.

“Veritaserum.” Snape set it down on the table, just feet from Harry. “I believe I have already educated you on the properties of this lovely little concoction.”

It felt as though Harry’s blood had run cold. Snape was going to force him to drink this? God, the man could ask him _anything_ , and Harry had no doubt that the serum would be utterly effective. Whatever his other faults, Snape was flawless when it came to brewing.

“I want answers,” Snape continued quietly, “and I suspect you’ve some to give me that will be… surprising. And since I likely will not take any of your words at face value unless I have some reassurance that they are true, it seems that this is one of our few options.”

Harry forced himself to start breathing again. “You can’t make me—”

“No,” Snape agreed swiftly, his tone still level, “I cannot. And I will not. The choice is yours. And I will offer this in exchange: regardless of what you tell me under the influence of this potion, I will leave you undisturbed for the remainder of the night. Additionally, I will revisit your assigned chores and endeavor to make them more… bearable. Do we have an accord?”

Harry stared fixedly at the bottle, his breathing notching toward shallow again. An accord… God, was he really going to give Snape full reign to question him under the effects of a powerful truth serum? Snape, who’d had it in for Harry since laying eyes on him?

But he wanted so desperately to be believed. Even Snape couldn’t doubt him if he was under the influence of such a potent potion. He could tell the man that he hadn’t done a damned thing, that he’d been framed, and that would be the end of it. Snape would likely wash his hands of Harry and see to it that Dumbledore smoothed things over, and then it would be back to Privet Drive. Back to the misery and hiding and utter boredom, back to pretending that magic—hell, that Harry himself—didn’t exist.

But it was a known evil, he reminded himself. Snape was still an unknown quantity, and seemed to loathe him a lot more actively than the Dursleys. Even if he hadn’t been utterly unbearable in the past few days, there was no telling how he would start to act once he tired of having Harry underfoot all the time. He might become much, much worse than the Dursleys ever had been.

The surest way to get out, and to save his yet unburnt possessions, was to subject himself to the Veritaserum and let Snape question him.

“You—you’ll just ask about the robbery, nothing else?” Harry stole a glance at Snape to judge his reaction.

The man’s nose wrinkled in disdain. “I will ask only relevant questions. Rest assured, your precious dark secrets hold no interest for me.”

Harry swallowed thickly. He sure as hell didn’t trust Snape, but he wanted to prove his own innocence too badly. He wanted Snape speechless, unable to fling a single baseless accusation at him. “Okay,” he agreed quietly, and reached for the bottle, which Snape promptly snatched back from his hand.

“You cannot take this on an empty stomach. It is highly toxic, and all you will end up doing his spewing bile all over the floor, wasting an expensive dosage and inducing dry heaving in the process.”

A surge of anger washed through Harry. What was it with the man and his obsession with Harry’s eating habits? “Fine,” Harry snapped. “I’ll make myself a sandwich—”

“You will eat dinner,” Snape corrected him in a hard tone. “There is leftover stew on the stove. You will eat an acceptable portion, and finish two glasses of water, and then we will proceed. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry muttered, pushing himself up. He _was_ hungry. And this wasn’t exactly caving, was it? It was more like acquiescing to a negotiation. Agreeing to Snape’s terms. And not that he was going to count on it or anything, but he had been promised the rest of the evening off, which was certainly something. And a reduction in chores, though he certainly wasn’t going to hold his breath on that particular promise amounting to anything.

There was already a bowl set out beside the stove, along with the same loaf of bread from the previous night. Harry grabbed a few slices of it, already determining that the bread would be the bulk of his meal, since his stomach likely wouldn’t tolerate the rich stew all that well. Though he knew that Snape would see it as more defiance if he begged off of the stew completely, so he fished out a few chunks of potato and carrot from the dark brown substance before returning to the table.

Snape still watched him from his place looming over the table. After a moment he moved to the sink, then returned, surprisingly, with a glass of water, which he all but slammed onto the table before Harry.

Harry ignored him, choosing instead to continue his meal in silence.

Food was good. Harry had practically forgotten how good in the past few days. He relished every bite, though he tried not to be too obvious about it. Too, he made certain to take small, measured bites, even though he longed to shovel every last scrap into his face and lick the bowl afterwards. That would end badly, and Snape was likely already in a foul enough temper. Harry imagined that spewing all over the table because he’d eaten too quickly would only worsen things past the point of tolerability.

When he’d cleaned the bowl and finished his second glass of water, which Snape had fetched for him only a touch more graciously than the first, he sat back and dared to lift his eyes to meet the Potions Master’s. And then he just glared, willing the man to get on with it.

Snape’s face was blank as stone. He withdrew the vial once more, along with his wand, and refilled Harry’s glass a quarter of the way before carefully unscrewing the crystalline vial. Harry watched as the man’s steady hand tipped precisely three colorless drops into the water before recorking the vial and stashing it in a pocket. Then Snape very deliberately slid the glass toward Harry.

“The serum will prime you to answer questions,” Snape warned quietly, his tone almost lecturing. “Do not fight it. Initially, you will feel disoriented, but you will regain clarity as your system acclimates to it.”

Harry wanted to remark snidely that he appreciated the warning, but in reality, he _was_ glad that Snape had offered him minimal information rather than letting him learn by experience alone. That, he surmised, would have been an entirely new level of unpleasant.

Harry steeled his courage and downed the concoction in one go, shuddering as it hit his tongue. Tasteless was right, but that just made it all the more sinister. At first he felt nothing—a vague haze, perhaps, but little more than that. But then the world seemed to grow distant; it was as if he’d retreated deep into himself and was watching his own consciousness from that deep, hidden place.

“What is your full name?”

“Harry James Potter.” The words flowed effortlessly past his lips, the syllables barely meaning anything to Harry. All he knew was that they were precise, right, true.

“Do you truly have no desire to reply to your letters?” the deep voice asked him.

Again the words formed seamlessly, drawn together by a magnetic force, like a law of physics. They streamed out as if following a tug as strong and natural as gravity. “Yes.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have nothing to say. Because they don’t know me after all and won’t listen to me. Because I’m sick of defending myself to people who should already have faith in me. Because they hurt me and answering will only open me to more hurt. Because they don’t deserve to have my response. Because I probably don’t deserve their support or love anyway.”

This time the words came out in a confused jumble. There was no neat, singular answer to be given, just a tangle of things that he spewed out. He needed to say it all, to purge himself of all those thoughts.

“I suppose it is working properly, then.”

Harry tried to make sense of that statement, but it seemed to him that it was senseless, just a string of sounds, because there was no asking in there. And it seemed to him that only the balance of asking and answering could possibly be meaningful.

“Did you conspire to rob Mathilda Applewhite?”

“No.” Precise, definite again. That was a relief.

“Did you at any time impulsively decide to break into her home and steal her possessions?”

“No.”

“Were you compelled or coerced into burgling her?”

“No.”

There was a harsh noise, of air whistling somehow. But that sound was not an asking either, and so Harry ignored it.

“Did you participate in that robbery in any way, shape, or form?”

“No.”

A low, angry string of words then. Harry caught a few of them, and something stirred in his mind, something beyond the asking and the answering. Snape. The potion. Snape was… was angry?

Harry blinked slowly, and then the meaning of those curses came to him, like light through tendrils of a heavy fog. Yes, Snape was angry because Harry Potter was not a felon, and here was the incontrovertible proof. Snape was angry because he could no longer punish Harry for that sin, and because his peaceful summer had been interrupted due to a misunderstanding only, not a dire need to reform the criminal Boy Who Lived.

“Who robbed her, then, and how in Merlin’s name did you come to be so thoroughly implicated?”

The sound of the question snared Harry again, pulling him away from conscious thought and back into the flow of answering. “I don’t know who robbed her. I was at the park when my cousin Dudley Dursley and his friend Piers Polkiss and two other teenaged boys whom I do not know pointed me out to an officer as the burglar.” Harry felt his own memories being aligned, like interlocking puzzle pieces, details snapping into place so that he could put them into words. So that he could make things clear and complete the balance. “I was not questioned or allowed to plead my own innocence. The word of my cousin and his friends was proof enough. Once at the detention center I believe they skipped proper protocol—”

“That is enough, Potter.”

The curt words jarred Harry a bit, but they did relieve him of the need to keep speaking and explaining.

“Why did you not explain this to me when I first came to get you?”

“Because you’d already made up your mind about me and wouldn’t have listened anyway. Because you told me not to tell you that I was innocent. Because you would send me back to the Dursleys if you found out that I was innocent. Because I was ashamed that I’d gotten myself into the situation by spending time at the park. Because I res—I—because—”

The next explanation that wanted to force its way out jarred Harry enough that he seemed to come to consciousness again within the haze. His vision focused slightly even as he realized the self-recriminating nonsense he’d been about to spew. And he fought with all his might to keep it contained.

But the potion was stronger. “Because I resurrected Vol—Volde—because—”

“Stop fighting the serum, you little idiot,” Snape hissed, his hand clamping onto Harry’s shoulder to shake him hard.

Harry jerked back, trying to escape the touch, even as he tried to bite down on his lip to muffle the words that seemed to pour out inexorably from his subconscious. “I resurrected Voldemort and—and k-killed Cedric, so I should be punished.”

Bloody hell, he did not really think that. Did he? Maybe the Veritaserum was broken. Maybe it was making him shout out every stupid, irrational thought that had ever crossed his mind.

Snape was silent for a moment after that. Harry refused to meet his eyes, and instead channeled all his energy inward to get ahold of his wayward tongue. If not for the stranglehold of the potion, he would have immediately launched into an explanation of how utterly absurd that last answer had been.

As it was, the Veritaserum did not seem to allow for volunteered information, only information extracted by the inquiry of another.

“What kind of relationship do you have with your relatives?” Snape asked at last, his voice pitched low.

Once again, Harry tried to bite his lip to keep the words from pouring out. The anger that resonated through him seemed to help shake the potion’s grip on his mind, if only for a moment. Where did Snape get off asking a thing like that? What in the hell was he hoping to hear?

“S-sod off—” he forced out, “you narcis—nar—nah—not good. They despise me and magic and believe that I am a freak, and hate even the sight of me.” The pull was too strong, in the end. It was like swimming against a powerful current that was slowly swelling into a tidal wave. The wave won in the end, implacable and all-consuming.

“Have they ever physically abused you?”

Sick. Snape was sick, asking for details like that. It was a wonder the man wasn’t rubbing his hands together in anticipation of such dirt on the famous Harry Potter. Harry opened his mouth to curse at the man, but this time the Veritaserum did not even allow him to form his own words. “My uncle has cuffed me a few times. My aunt tried to hit me with a frying pan once. My cousin has broken and fractured bones, concussed me, cut me, and caused other injuries.”

“Were you taken to the hospital after those incidents?” Snape pressed, sounding very much invested in this particular question.

Harry tried to push himself to his feet, reasoning beneath the tug of the answering that if he removed himself from the room he might be able to break free of the influence. But it was no good; he couldn’t seem to get his muscles to obey him.

“No,” he spat, glad that he could at least infuse the answer with some degree of venom.

“Were you neglected by your relatives?”

“No—nah—I wasn’t—y-yes—was—was not—” Harry spluttered. He suddenly felt so twisted, so entangled, internally, that his rage at Snape even faded for a moment. Yes—the answer was yes, but no, and he didn’t understand what that meant or how he could possibly convey it.

Snape made an impatient noise. “It was really a simple question, but apparently you believe there is too much _nuance_ to it. Very well. How often were you deprived of meals?”

“Every week. Every—every day.” What the hell? Why did _that_ answer feel right? “No—not—I—”

“Oh, good Lord,” Snape hissed. “How can you possibly…? Fine. I will be _explicit_. How often were you allowed three meals a day?”

“Nev—” A memory surged, one of a time when he was eight and helping to set up for his aunt’s book club. One of the neighbors had found out that her husband was cheating on her—a neighbor that Petunia had detested. So his aunt had been in a particularly good mood that day. He’d had breakfast, and the remains of their luncheon, and then he’d even been allowed dinner that night. Harry remembered how excited he’d been that day, how damned hopeful that things would start to be better from then on. Ha. He’d been so pathetically naïve. “Once.”

“A week?” Snape prompted, his voice still saturated with impatience.

Harry found his head shaking before he could stop it. “Once.”

Snape muttered some indistinct oath.

Maybe he’d taken bets with someone on the ugly truths about Harry’s home life. Maybe he’d put money on Harry having it a lot better than he actually did, and now was out a fistful of galleons. That did seem like something Snape would do. Maybe he’d owled the elder Malfoy and had a good chuckle about it, and had proposed throwing together a betting pool. God, maybe he’d decided he would kill two birds with one stone and humiliate Harry while gaining stature with his fellow Death Eaters. Maybe they all had wagers on how twisted his childhood actually was.

“Were you ever locked away or denied other basic comforts—bedding, use of the facilities, and so on?”

“Yes.” The words sounded as though they’d been wrenched from his gut. “Until I was eleven I was locked daily in my cupboard, where I had only an old blanket and pillow. I was allowed out for chores but not in the evening, and I was locked away sooner if they were expecting company.”  
  
“And after?” Snape cut in, his tone urgent. “What changed, Potter?”

Harry hissed as he once again battled to reign himself in. It was becoming a bit easier. The urge to speak seemed like a much smaller beast now, one he could tangle with and hope to subdue. For a moment he succeeded, until Snape refined his question.

“Why were you no longer kept in a—a _cupboard_ —after turning eleven?”

The specificity seemed to give the Veritaserum power, and set Harry’s lips moving once more against his will. “I received my Hogwarts letter addressed to the Cupboard Under the Stairs. They thought the wizards were watching them so I was moved to my cousin’s second bedroom.”

“Second—for Christ’s sake.”

Harry might have snorted at that very Mugglish oath if he hadn’t been so furious and mortified by all the things that Snape was forcing him to admit.

All trace amusement vanished when Snape resumed his questioning. “Did they treat you better following that?”

“Sometimes. They put locks on the door and bars on the window, and the summer before second year they fed me through a cat flap while I was with them. This year they didn’t bother me as long as I kept to myself and did my chores.” Harry felt a belated heat rise in his cheeks. Snape knew about the cat flap now. He knew about how pathetic Harry really was, locked up by his own aunt and uncle…. God, he would never hear the end of this.

“Were you verbally abused by your aunt and uncle?”

Harry tried to shake his head in vehement denial, but his muscles went rigid and he only succeeded in straining one as he fought against the reaction. “Yes.”

“What did they say to you, Harry?”

“They called me a freak. Said I should have died with my parents. Told me I was a leech and a burden. They—”

At last Harry felt something in him snap. No. He was not going to give Snape anything more. He was done, Veritaserum or no. He’d already given the man far too much, more than he’d ever agreed to. Ha, but Snape was a liar and a sadist. So was he really surprised?

He bit down on his lip hard, with enough force that he was certain he bit right through the skin. But at least that ended his potion-induced babbling. Damn it, but he wished he could only force himself to stand, to walk away, to scream at Snape that he’d had _no right_ to ask these things.

“Potter, I said not to fight it!”

Harry just barely managed to shake his head furiously. Not in denial, but refusal.

Snape sighed heavily. “Tell me, do you believe the vitriol they spewed?”

Harry felt himself losing control again, his will bowing to the serum—too powerful in face of that direct question. And then his lips formed the words that he wished to God he could obliviate from Snape’s memory. “Yes, some, though I tr-try—try not to think about it.”

Mortification swept through him in a hot rush, and the force of it seemed to snap the last of the tendrils of the Veritaserum, freeing Harry from its insidious grip. The shame swelled, and crashed, only to be replaced by a larger, much more powerful wave—raw, unadulterated fury.

“You LIED to me!” he roared, his words accompanied by the sound of shattering glass. The drinking glasses, reduced to white powder. Harry felt a vague sense of satisfaction at that, his magic running rampant and causing such destruction. “How DARE you take advantage!” The table cracked in two, the violence of it causing Snape to leap back a good few feet. “How dare you pry—force me to—to— _you said_ —”

The air of the room seemed to crackle with magic, like static gathering in the air before a storm.

“I said I would only ask relevant questions,” Snape replied, his tone placating. “I assure you, everything I asked was—”

“Don’t you even try to justify it, you absolute _arse_!” The magic flared, bright and hot, and lights above them shattered then. The shards of their remains rained down in a parody of snowfall, leaving them in quasi-darkness. “You knew I was innocent almost right away, so why keep going, huh? Oh, to dig into my life and scoop up every bit of dirt you can, so you can at least have all that to hold over me—”

“Potter, you’re hysterical. Calm down—”

“Calm DOWN?” Harry screamed, and as he did he felt a great rush of energy leave him and collide with Snape. The Potions Master was pushed back another few feet, his tall frame thudding dully against the wall. “You’ve just violated me! Do you even get that? You had no right to ask those things! To make me talk—oh God, I hate you, Snape. I hate you so much.” He whipped around to leave, his mind abuzz with too many emotions. The shame was resurfacing again, and along with it some degree of fear of how Snape would retaliate for the destruction Harry had wrought.

With curses, likely. Or another interrogation, this time pouring the Veritaserum down Harry’s throat. Or maybe he’d just lock him up somewhere and laugh, because Harry ought to be used to it by now.

He made it all of two feet before stumbling and practically collapsing to his knees, a wave of dizziness coursing through him. He felt weak suddenly, like he might faint. Like he could scarcely drag himself out of the room.

“Easy,” Snape commanded, and even had the nerve to make his way over to Harry. “Your system’s just had a nasty shock—Veritaserum is not easy on the body, not to mention loosing that much magic. And you’ve scarcely eaten these past days. If you’re not careful—“

“I’ll trip and break my neck?” Harry hissed. “Good. That sounds great. And then _you_ can explain to Dumbledore how you got his little Voldemort slayer killed. Oh, I’m sorry, I meant _You-Know-Who_ slayer. Don’t touch me!” Harry slapped at the hands that had actually started to tuck beneath his armpits, as if to lift him to his feet that way.

Snape frowned down at Harry, his mouth curling with displeasure. “I assume you intend to make it to your room, and since you’ve no hope of doing so on your own—”

“I’ll manage, thanks,” Harry spat, struggling again to right himself. He was panting hard by the time he’d managed to struggle to his feet. “Don’t you fucking touch me again. If I fall, you can just leave me there, got it? I don’t want you anywhere near me. Oh, but you promised that I’d have the evening to myself, so you’ll probably want to torment me in person all night, right? Since you like to tell lies and then do the exact opposite of what you said, just to make me fucking miserable!”

Snape heaved a heavy sigh, but he did step back to lean against the dining room wall once more, as if he were trying to give Harry space. “I understand you are upset, but you require assistance—”

“Well, I’d rather call Voldemort than rely on you for that! So if you want to be useful, why don’t you ring him up for me, hm? That big ugly fucking mark has to be useful for something!”

“Potter, watch your language,” Snape hissed. “I have been tolerant, but—”

“But what? I make one more crack and you’ll hit me? Go on! You’ve already done the worst—and besides, you heard me, only Dudley ever got a good shot in. Time to fix that, eh? Time to show the fucking Savior how to take real punch!”

Snape’s face paled a bit, and not with anger. “I—Potter, I am not about to… to strike you. Just allow me to get you up the stairs—”

“Don’t talk to me,” Harry hissed. “Ever.” And then, with an almighty marshaling of his energies, Harry forced himself to limp from the room.

He had to pause at the foot of the landing, his breathing labored again. He felt as though he’d just run three marathons and swum to the bottom of the Black Lake without gillyweed. He half expected to find Snape hovering behind him, a sneer on his face as he enjoyed the sight of a weak, broken Harry Potter trying to find a way to haul himself up one measly flight of stairs.

Snape stayed away though. Maybe he figured the next thing Harry’s accidental magic would break would be his body. Smart of him, really. Harry instinctually felt that what he’d done to Marge before his third year would look like a party trick compared to what he would do to Snape.

One by one, laboriously, his progress painfully slow, Harry mounted the stairs. He couldn’t catch his breath when he reached the top, and had to literally crawl into his bedroom, where he collapsed artlessly onto the floor.

Even the bare wood felt soft to him in his state. Vaguely, as he drifted off into the peaceful dark, he thought that he was really quite fucked, considering all the things he’d yelled at Snape.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry sets something on fire, and also receives another letter.

Harry woke sometime in the middle of the night to the sound of muffled angry voices. It took him longer than usual to rouse himself from sleep, but once he’d managed, he noted that they seemed to be carrying up the stairs from the sitting room. And it was just one voice, actually: Snape’s.

Of course the man was upset, Harry thought bitterly. If he couldn’t justify punishing his least favorite student, he certainly didn’t want him hanging around any longer than necessary. Probably he was making arrangements for Harry to be out the very next morning. Which was fine, really. Harry would be happy to be away from the professor and this miserable little house.

Harry dropped his head back onto his pillow.

Wait. Pillow?

Harry bolted straight up, instantly regretting the decision as he felt all the muscles in his strained back scream in agony. But he ignored that in favor of trying to figure out just where in the hell he was. Same room, but he wasn’t on the floor. No, he was up on the bed, which was now fully made up, entangled in the blankets, a comfortable pillow cradling his head. He didn’t even have his glasses on anymore.

For just a hair’s breadth of a second, he contemplated the possibility that Snape had come up here and put him to bed. Then immediately discarded it, because who the hell was he kidding?

No, this had to be the remnants of his accidental magic. It had happened once or twice that the strange outbursts hadn’t taken violent forms. When he’d been cold in his cupboard one winter, for example, because the heat had gone out and the Dursleys hadn’t bothered getting him an electric space heater like they’d been using. He’d wished so hard for a blanket, and fallen into a miserable half-sleep, only to wake up fully covered in a lovely blue comforter that radiated a heat of its own.

Petunia had discovered it the next day, of course, and identified it as one of the spares for Dudley’s bedroom. She’d known that Harry had magicked it down to himself somehow, and thus had burned it to keep the taint from infecting her home and her son.

Well, at least it had been good for something this time other than just breaking Snape’s things and royally pissing the man off. Harry imagined he’d still have to pay the price for his behavior that evening before he was allowed to leave.

He sighed and carefully lowered himself back down onto the mattress, his ears straining to make out the conversation downstairs. Harry wondered who Snape was talking to. Dumbledore, most likely. Probably complaining that Harry was an utter cretin who’d destroyed his home. Maybe he thought Dumbledore could get Harry to pay restitution or something for the damage.

Determining that he wasn’t going to make out anything useful anyway, Harry let his eyes drift shut and tuned out Snape’s muffled shouting. Memories of everything he’d told Snape were starting to drift back to him—all about his childhood, and how much his relatives hated him, and how badly they’d treated him.

A dull flare of anger burned through Harry then as the injustice of it all hit him. He’d done nothing wrong and he’d still been treated like a criminal. No one, not even Dumbledore, would stand up to Snape’s abuse of power and authority, and now the man knew everything. Now he could hone his insults so that they really hit home, and arm his Slytherins with the necessary information to do the same.

Next year was going to be hell.

Harry tried his best to keep the tears in, but as soon as the first slipped down his cheek a cascade followed. He buried his head so that the fresh pillow would absorb them as well as the sounds of his choked sobs.

How many times had he dreamed of someone finding out all about the Dursleys, and then doing everything in their power to take him out of there? How many times had he imagined foster families for himself, with a mother and a father who would be happy to see him, who would enjoy spending time with him? With siblings who would want to befriend him rather than cause him as much pain and misery as possible for their own twisted amusement?

And now the universe had decided to fuck him over yet again. He’d spilled his guts to Snape, the person on the planet most likely to laugh at him and poke fun and simply enjoy the fact that Harry was an unloved, sad little orphan and a pathetic wizard who couldn’t even defend himself from his Muggle family. Well, maybe the second most likely to torment him. Draco Malfoy was probably at the head of that line, perhaps right beside his father.

There was nothing for it, he tried to console himself. It was done and over, and he would just have to deal with things. Ron and Hermione would help him through it. And if he needed to, he could always just spend as much time as possible in the common room, or maybe down visiting Hagrid. And besides, it wasn’t like he was six years old. So what if they taunted him? So what if they knew all about his home life? He could learn to ignore them. He’d been through that before.

But that wasn’t much comfort to him. He tossed and turned for a while, his emotional distress mirroring his physical discomfort. It was a long time before he managed to drift back into an uneasy sleep.

XXXXX

Harry glared at the note, hands trembling at his sides. He’d woken to find the folded parchment on top of his trunk, emanating some kind of faint magic that seemed to attract his attention. Likely Snape’s doing.

Harry had woken from his fitful sleep feeling groggy and out of sorts. His head throbbed, likely from the tears he’d shed the night before, and his stomach had clenched almost immediately into a sickeningly tight ball as he realized that he would, at some point, have to face Snape.

And cursing at the man and shattering more of his personal possessions and furniture likely wouldn’t go over well, no matter how deserved it was.

The rage had swelled up in him again at that, and without thinking he slammed his fist against the wall, nearly crying out at the intensity of the pain that radiated through the bones on making contact. Even that was not nearly enough to distract him from the raging vortex of his emotions—vicious, burning hatred for Snape; self-loathing for spewing all that pathetic nonsense and for being so damned weak; hatred of his godfather and Lupin and the Weasleys for doing nothing, _nothing_ to help him out of this situation; disgust for Dumbledore for simply sitting back and allowing things to unfold, just as he always had.

And then he’d seen that damned note, and felt the tug of magic, and he’d had to restrain himself from simply ripping the thing to shreds and hurling the fragments out the window.

He’d forced himself to draw several deep breaths as he cradled his hand against his chest, waiting for the throbbing to subside.

And even now he still didn’t trust himself to pick up the note. He couldn’t even guess what it said. Maybe Snape was sick of him after the previous night and this was to explain that he’d locked Harry in the room so he wouldn’t have to deal with him.

He drew one more deep breath and finally picked up the parchment and unfolded.

 _Mr. Potter,_ it read,

_I have a number of errands to run this morning and will be gone until the afternoon. See the reverse for your schedule, which I expect you will follow to the letter in my absence. Note that meals are included, and thus not optional. I will be inquiring about your eating habits as well as your activities upon my return, so do not think to simply ignore my instructions and do as you please. ~S.S._

Fury boiled up in Harry, and before he could restrain himself he felt his magic pouring out through his hands, igniting the parchment. Harry cursed and dropped the note just as the flames licked against his hands, scorching them. The parchment crumbled to ash and fell to the ground.

Harry hissed out a low curse and dashed to the bathroom, his mind still whirling. He worked once again at controlling his breathing as he ran cold water over his hands. Not that he minded Snape being gone for a few extra hours, of course, but the man’s high-handed instructions…. And after last night, too, he thought viciously, fighting the urge to curl his hands into fists.

But what had he expected? Severus Snape to cut him some slack, to recognize on some level that he’d been wrong about Harry and treated him unfairly?

No, of course not. He would just give Harry another damned list, as if he hadn’t gotten a good look at the previous one, and then hurry off to see about getting rid of his unwanted charge as quickly as possible. The only thing that was surprising was that there was no reference to the tantrum Harry had thrown the previous night.

Well, Snape’s anger was probably implied with Harry’s new list of chores, not that he had a hope of piecing that together now. And too, the sadistic bastard probably wanted to scream at Harry once Harry was good and tired and miserable rather than before.

Harry sighed and shut off the water. There was nothing he could do about it now, he decided. And nothing to be gained by refusing meals. Snape knew everything. He tried to push that from his mind, but it was no use. Snape’s knowing sneer seemed branded in his mind, the man’s disdain and cruel amusement continuing to haunt Harry even in his physical absence.

Just a bit longer, Harry reminded himself. Maybe by the end of the day Snape would have arranged things. The Dursleys hated him, true, but at least they would never know the full extent of his misery. He would never have to spill any of his intimate thoughts to them in a drug-induced stupor. And he would only have to endure a few more weeks in their care before he could forget all about their existence. That always made it more bearable somehow.

Snape, though, couldn’t be cut from his life, much as he wanted to break off all contact with the man. The Potions Professor was tied far too tightly to Hogwarts, and Harry couldn’t leave there. The castle was his home, his only anchor. There was no choice but to weather out the torment and hope that Snape would eventually grow bored of him and seek out another target.

Ha. Fat chance of that. It had been what, four years now? Likely Harry would be the man’s favorite target until the day he graduated, and maybe even after that.

Harry leaned hard against the porcelain of the sink. It was doing him no good to dwell on all this. He just had to pull himself together and last for a day or two more. He could put up with anything for that long, couldn’t he?

He sighed and splashed a bit of water over his face. Breakfast, he decided, and then he’d just get back to doing the roof. He couldn’t imagine that Snape had modified his list all that much. Besides, that was a project that needed to be finished and quickly.

He found a loaf of bread and some jam, which made a respectable breakfast. He washed it down with a glass of milk from the fridge, washed his dishes, and then, with yet another heavy sigh pushed himself to his feet and headed out to the back yard. There he retrieved the improvised tool he’d been using to pry up shingles and mounted the ladder.

Idly, he wondered at the fact that Snape had opted to leave him alone in the house. Maybe he figured that he had enough blackmail material now that Harry wouldn’t dare to misbehave. Even though Harry had caused such a mess the previous night, and cursed and spat at the man….

Huh. That damage had all been repaired, hadn’t it? And Snape hadn’t put any snarky warnings about Harry controlling himself in that note. Odd.

Though maybe the man was so out-of-sorts and so ready to be rid of Harry that he’d completely neglected to warn off his unwanted house guest. It was Snape, so who really knew?

Harry had to work more slowly all day. His hands were still tender from the slight burn they’d received, and his right hand was sore from being slammed into the wall. But he was used to working around injuries, thankfully, and so his productivity did not drop too much.

Thankfully it was an overcast day. The heat remained mostly bearable, even through the worst hours of the late morning. Harry found himself lost in his task, a blessed reprieve from thinking about all that had happened in the last few weeks, not to mention all the uncertainties he had yet to face down. He even ignored the faint ache in his stomach as the day stretched on, deciding that he’d rather not climb down just yet. He would wait until he was truly hungry, or better yet, until dinner.

It was just as his hunger had started to grow too demanding to be ignored that Harry heard the back door to the house fly open, and with considerably more force than it ever had before. The metallic groan of the handle being turned was immediately followed by the reverberating thud of the door itself being slammed against the house’s brick siding.

“Potter!”

Harry sighed. The peace and quiet had been nice while it had lasted.

“Get down here _this instant_!”

The man sounded as though he had a serious bug up his arse. Great. Probably wanted to yell at Harry now for the previous night, even though he’d essentially forced Harry to give up his most jealously guarded secrets after promising to do no such thing.

Harry drew in a deep, calming breath. Showing how angry he was with Snape wasn’t going to do him any good, just make things more unpleasant. The more he seemed bothered by all that had occurred the previous night, the more Snape would use it against him. Best to just feign indifference as well as he could and pray that Snape was about to order him to pack his things and prepare to Floo out.

As soon as Harry reached the foot of the ladder, he felt his collar being seized. Snape hauled him backwards, spun him around, and seized him by the front of his shirt, his grip tight as it twisted the fabric.

Harry forced himself to meet Snape’s gaze. The man looked livid, mouth pressed into a tight line, eyes blazing with anger. But too, Harry couldn’t help but note, the man looked tired. The faint dark rings were impossible to miss, as was the slight glint of—well, Harry wasn’t sure what it was. Something wild. Panic?

No, why in the hell would Snape be panicked? He was imagining things.

“Just what in the _hell_ do you think you were doing?” he spat, shaking Harry as he belted out the question.

Harry felt his mind go blank. What was the man talking about? “Sir?” he asked questioningly. “I—I don’t understand—”

“You could have fallen and broken your fool neck! What possessed you to climb up there? I did not think I would have to specifically forbid it, but Merlin, I will be more thorough in the future!” He shook Harry a few more times, the motion enough to rattle Harry’s teeth.

Harry had to tamp down his own reaction to those senseless words. What, Snape was pretending to care now? What was the man playing at? “Funny, sir, you didn’t seem to have a problem sending me up there before—”

“When I was present and able to cast a Cushioning Charm!” Snape roared, his hands tightening further in Harry’s shirt. “When I had already warded the premises against such accidents! One slip, Potter, might have ended you! Do you even understand the gravity of that?”

Harry felt an angry flush come over his skin. “I do understand gravity, thanks. I’m not so stupid—”

“Gravity—the seriousness of it, you dunce!”

The blush grew hot enough to feel as though it was singeing his skin. “I’ve fallen further before, sir. Trust me, I bounce.” And with that he wrenched himself free from Snape’s grip and made to climb back up the ladder.

“Damn it all,” he heard Snape mutter, and then his shoulder was caught in the man’s iron grip. “Inside. Wait for me at the table. And since it appears I must spell everything out, you are now forbidden from climbing up onto the roof. Defy me again and I will add a grounding spell to that ring, am I clear?”

Harry was seething then. He knew he shouldn’t goad Snape, but he couldn’t help himself. It appeared that he was damned regardless of what he did, so why should he bother restraining himself? “Of course, sir. Except if I can’t go up there, I can’t finish the job I was given, can I? But I’m sure you’ll be glad to punish me for that—”

“I did not list finishing the roof in your schedule for a reason, Potter!” Snape interrupted, his words sharp. “You are done with that. In the future, you would do well to simply follow instructions, rather than trying to decipher nonexistent mysteries concerning what I _really_ meant. I take it you did not have enough to occupy your time today?”

Damn, damn, damn. Harry felt his stomach condense into a tight, painful know. Why had Snape actually changed things up? Why couldn’t he just let Harry continue with his course? Well, Christ, it wasn’t like the man couldn’t find fault when there was none. He would have found something to criticize, some reason to resume tormenting Harry. So what if he had an actual justification this once?

“I… uh….” God, he didn’t want to say it. He didn’t want to find out what Snape would do to him now for blatantly disregarding instructions.

“Did you _look_ at the schedule?” Snape demanded snidely. “Or did you simply assume what I would assign you to do?”

Harry fixed his gaze on his shoes. “I would have, but—look, I didn’t get a chance to, okay? I—I lost my temper, and….”

“And?” Snape prompted impatiently.

“More accidental magic, okay? It burnt up before I got a chance to look, so I figured I would just keep doing what I’d been doing. It’s not like I just—just lazed around or snooped through your things or anything, is it?”

“Your magic caused my note to spontaneously combust?” Snape inquired in a surprisingly level tone.

Harry didn’t know what to make of that. He nodded to the ground.

“While you were holding it?” Snape continued, his tone remaining just as level.

“Yeah, and I got burned too, so don’t think I did it on purpose—”

“Let me see your hands,” Snape demanded suddenly, his voice sharp once again.

Of course the git didn’t believe him. Of course he believed Harry to be exaggerating still, even after learning that Harry wasn’t actually a felon. Harry presented them both, relieved that turning them, palms up, was enough for the man to release his hold on Harry’s shirt.

He heard Snape’s hissed intake of breath, and almost smiled to himself. _That’s right_ , Harry thought, _I wasn’t lying about this either, you prick. So there_.

His momentary satisfaction morphed back into confusion, and then fear, though, when Snape whipped out his wand. Harry stumbled a step backward, wondering if running would do any good when Snape had a mind to hex him.

But Snape snared his wrist, effectively ending that dilemma for him, and leveled his wand tip at the burned, slightly blistered skin and muttered a nearly inaudible spell. The redness immediately faded from the area, along with the residual sting. Snape wasted no time in repeating the treatment on Harry’s other hand.

When Snape had finished, Harry didn’t know what to do. He shuffled backward a foot, feeling awkward and self-conscious and ill at ease. Because this had to be just the prelude to something awful, right? Snape wasn’t obligated to tend to his little cuts and bruises and such, so this had to be part of some greater scheme, though Harry couldn’t fathom just what. Or maybe Snape was just obliterating the evidence that he’d been wrong yet again, even if that meant easing Precious Potter’s discomfort.

“Inside,” he repeated quietly, no hint of his previous ire in his tone. For a fleeting moment Harry imagined a kind of defeat in the man’s bearing, as if all the anger had been burnt out of him. But he immediately dismissed that assessment as absurd. Snape was storing it all up, so he could unleash it on Harry in a torrent. That was all.

“Sit at the kitchen table. I will not be long.”

Harry forced himself to draw a deep breath. It felt as if his lungs had shrunken, though, and the air seemed to fill them to an uncomfortable capacity. He wanted Snape to yell, he realized. He wanted it all out and on the table so that he knew what to expect. But Snape probably knew that, and was restraining himself on purpose.

But as before, there was no purpose in disobeying Snape. So Harry did as he was told, wrapping one arm over his stomach as he went. Just a few more days and things would go back to normal, he reminded himself.

Snape had said that he wouldn’t be long, but the wait still seemed to stretch out indefinitely. There was nothing in the kitchen to distract Harry, so inevitably his thoughts relentlessly circled around what was about to happen.

It only seemed too terrible to contemplate, he thought, because Snape had not defined what he would do. Once Harry knew what he was dealing with, he would be able to get himself through it. That was all it was. Still, it was harder than it should have been to keep his breathing even, and he had to keep wiping his sweaty palms against his jeans.

At last Snape returned from some other part of the house, his face yet again an unreadable mask. Surprisingly, he did not opt to tower menacingly over Harry; he pulled a chair out instead and sat across from him, his posture stiff and formal.

“You should be aware,” he began quietly, “that your hearing has been rescheduled for this Friday. You should also be aware that Mrs. Mathilda Applewhite gave testimony yesterday implicating your cousin and exonerating you.”

Harry had to bite down on his tongue to stifle his retort. What, so he was supposed to be grateful that Snape had—well, gone out and “arranged” things so that the poor old woman would say Dudley had done it? Even though Harry was actually innocent and had already more than paid for the crimes he’d never committed?

Snape withdrew a thin envelope from his robes. White paper, not parchment, meaning that it was Muggle. He slid it across the table toward Harry. “In fact….” Snape’s gaze drifted to the side as he spoke. “She was… rather appalled that I had forced you to write an apology for something you had not done. Apparently she was hiding in the home during the incident, and those incompetent morons neglected to search for her. Instead they assumed she was on holiday and sent a letter to her through the post. Had they sought her out, this might have been cleared up a great deal sooner.”

Harry merely blinked at the envelope. So… so Snape hadn’t “fixed” anyone’s memory. And Mrs. Applewhite had written to him? That was odd. Sure, he’d always gotten on with her, more than the Dursley’s other neighbors, but it wasn’t as if they were close or anything. Maybe it was just because she was friends with Mrs. Figg.

“In any case, you should be prepared to leave for the courthouse at ten that day. We will be continuing the ruse that I am your father.” Snape’s mouth curled a little in distaste as he spoke those words.

Harry nearly snapped that he didn’t much like the idea either, but he managed to restrain himself. “Yes, sir.” He waited for the litany of threats that was sure to follow. _You will behave yourself, Potter, and you will not disgrace me in any way, or so help me_ ….

“You spent the entire day working on the roof?”

Hm. Maybe Snape was saving all the threats for tomorrow, or later that night. Harry shrugged to himself internally. No use in looking a gift horse in the mouth. “Yes, sir.” A good, safe response.

“What did you have for breakfast?”

“Bread and jam, and some milk.”

“Mm. And lunch?”

“Nothing yet—”

“It is nearly three in the afternoon, Potter! Did I not warn you that you would not be skipping any more meals?” Snape’s voice regained its edge and its coldness, and that alone was enough to cause Harry to shrink back slightly.

“I didn’t skip it,” he protested feebly. “I just hadn’t gotten around to—”

“You did not prioritize following my instructions.” Harry winced. “Apparently, you need your hand held.” Snape pushed himself to his feet violently and stalked over to the fridge. “You will eat now, and you will have a respectable portion at dinner. If we have any trouble over this again, you will be punished accordingly. Is that clear?”

Harry thought that it wasn’t very clear at all, really. Wasn’t he going to be punished now? Wasn’t there already plenty to punish him for in Snape’s eyes? But he wasn’t about to say that, of course. “Yes, sir. I’ll just—I’ll make myself—”

“Stay where you are,” Snape commanded coolly. Harry watched apprehensively as the Potions Master swept over to the fridge.

“Sir—let me get it. Please—”

“It is no trouble.”

Harry strained to hear the sarcasm in those words, but found none. “I’d rather make it myself. I don’t want you—” Harry shut himself up, but not before seeing Snape’s form stiffen.

Snape turned slowly to face him, his expression dark and unpromising. “You don’t want me _what_?” he hissed softly. “To poison you, is that right? You honestly believe I would do such a thing?”

Harry squared his jaw and stared back at the man as unflinchingly as he could manage. “No, sir. Not poison. Not the deadly kind, at least. But you once told me how easy it would be for your hand to slip—”

“For pity’s sake!” Snape snarled. “I thought you might like to rest, but fine, be my guest!” He stepped back and gestured grandly to the rest of the kitchen. “Prepare it yourself, so that you can be assured that it isn’t adulterated in any way. Adulterated, Potter, means altered—”

“I figured that out, thanks,” Harry retorted, standing up himself. “Sir,” he added belatedly, hating the tiny quaver that worked its way into his voice.

Snape sighed and his body slackened slightly. He raised a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I understand that you are a bit… wary… of my intentions. But if I wished to force anything on you—which I do not, most assuredly—I could simply force it on you, either physically or magically. Surely you realize this. Now, you will give up this irrational fear or I will prove my point by force-feeding you this meal. Which will it be?”

Harry tried to stare Snape down, to pretend that he wasn’t afraid, but of course Snape was right. The Potions Master was stronger than him, and a fully-fledged wizard to boot. And no one really cared what he did to Harry, did they? So long as he didn’t go too far. So if Snape wanted to give him more Veritaserum, or something even worse…. Harry repressed a shudder.

He would only engender more ill will by resisting, he figured. “Fine,” he mumbled sullenly.

“ ‘Fine’ meaning…?”

“I’ll cooperate.”

Snape gave a curt nod of acknowledgment and then began sifting through the fridge again.

In the end, if Snape had slipped something into the food he’d been very clever about hiding it. He fixed Harry a grilled cheese and heated up tomato soup from a tin—which Harry found a touch ridiculous. He could have, after all, easily prepared the meal himself and saved Snape the trouble, though Snape probably thought that allowing Harry to so much as touch the stove would lead to his entire house burning down.

Harry didn’t protest. He muttered a grudging thanks before tucking into the meal, belatedly realizing just how hungry he was.

Snape watched the whole time. It was unnerving. He just stood there, leaning against the countertop beside the sink, his eyes trained on Harry’s like a bird of prey on a mouse, waiting for the rodent to make the mistake of leaving cover. Harry expected the man to swoop over at any moment and begin yelling at him for some fabrication or another.

He didn’t. He said nothing, in fact, just continued to watch. When Harry had finished and moved to wash his dishes in the sink, Snape commanded quietly, “Leave them. Go rest for a while.”

Go _rest_ for a while? What in the hell was the man playing at? “Why? What would you care—”

“Because I said so. Do not fight me on this.”

“I’m not tired—”

“I did not say you had to sleep. Go occupy yourself with something that is not physically strenuous, Potter. Is that enough of a clarification?”

Harry didn’t know why he was arguing. It seemed natural, though, especially when Snape was telling him to _rest_ —nothing good could come from that… that feigned concern. That weak attempt to be decent, even. No, Harry was going to figure out what was going on. “Why do you want me to rest?”

Harry could see Snape’s jaw tightening, and at last a familiar venom returned to the man’s words. “ _Must_ you be so difficult? Is there some reason that you must fight me every damned step? Or is it just a pleasure to be so contrarian?”

“I’ll stop acting _contrarian_ just as soon as you stop pretending to care whether I’m tired or not, or fed, or anything! I know you don’t, and I don’t know what you think you’ll get from me by getting me to believe otherwise—”

“You absolute idiot! There is no _scheme_ here! But if being less civil will get things through your thick skull, very well! Get yourself out of my sight for a while, and Merlin help you if you wear yourself out further! Is that better? Will you obey now?”

Harry felt his face flush hot. There was magic building in him again, but this afternoon was not nearly as fracturing as the previous night. But the memory of losing control like that was still fresh and painful. Truly, it was a miracle that Snape was choosing to ignore the destruction entirely.

He wanted to snap at the Potions Master that of course yelling got through to him better, hadn’t he learned anything about Harry’s psyche the previous night? Hadn’t he as good as confessed that his relatives hated him and were likely glad to be shut of him, and that they rarely communicated with him other than by shouting?

Picking at that wound would not end favorably for Harry, though. Best to let sleeping dogs lie. “Fine, sir,” he replied instead. “What do you want me to do?”

All at once Snape looked exhausted again, the sneer fading from his features. “Read. Reply to your letter.” He waved a loose hand at the white envelope on the table. “I don’t care, so long as it does not involve taxing physical labor.”

Harry swallowed his pride and replied quietly, “Yes, sir,” before slipping from the room. He made certain to grab Mrs. Applewhite’s letter before retreating from the room.

Once he was alone in his—ha, no, Snape’s guest bedroom, he corrected himself—he found his fingers hesitating over the envelope’s seal. What if this just contained more scolding? What if Snape knew that and had handed it to him, just as he’d given over the letters from Remus and Sirius and Mrs. Weasley? What if he was laughing, even now, at the thought of Harry reading once again about how terrible and thoughtless he was?

Well, he thought, he had to know. He settled himself on the floor before the window, so that his body was mostly blocked from view from the door by the bed. He didn’t know why the position should make him feel so at ease; it wasn’t as if it had ever stopped Vernon from finding him and chewing him out. Maybe it was something to do with having a physical barrier between him and whatever was on the other side of that door.

Harry drew a deep, calming breath and slid a finger beneath the letter’s flap, slitting it open, before carefully extracting the thin piece of paper folded within. Mrs. Applewhite had written on a flowery piece of stationary, one with morning glories curling over the corners. Her handwriting was thin and elegant, the kind that spoke of endless drilling known only to the older generations. Even Harry’s classmates, who regularly practiced their penmanship, lacked the sheer elegance displayed here.

 _Dear Harry,_ it began,

_I hope this finds you well. I cannot imagine what dreadful business it must have been to be so mistreated by those buffoons at the station, and then to be doubted by your own father! I am appalled that he would leave you with such vile people rather than take responsibility and care for you properly._

_When he came by to deliver that letter you’d written I told him what a good boy you were, always offering to help me with my groceries and such. And I told him shame on him for ever doubting you. He asked if I wanted him to deliver a message today, and I hope to God that he reads this over, because it bears repeating: there is a difference, Harry, between a father and a sperm donor. And I told him that I bet he knows what he is in my eyes, leaving you like he did without ever visiting, and letting those Dursleys treat you so horribly. I told him that he’s a lout, and more shame on him for not realizing what a fine boy he has._

_I suspect he’s been listening to Petunia too much, though, like half this neighborhood. They’re all chattering old birds, Harry, don’t pay them mind. I’ve done my best to shut them up over the years, but I suppose I never ran in the right circles._

_In any case, I hope he’s properly ashamed of himself now and plans on doing better by you. I’ve tried not to stick my nose into things too much over the years, but now it’s become apparent just how utterly worthless those people are and how much you’ve paid for it. Well, I won’t keep my mouth shut any longer. And I hope you won’t either, dear. You demand better from your father, and you tell him he’ll answer to me if he can’t get his act together._

_You keep strong, Harry, and you let me know if I can do anything for you. It’s past time I offered as much._

_Sincerely, Tillie_

Harry read the letter through three times, and each time his heart seemed to swell a little more. Old Mrs. Applewhite had told Snape off? He couldn’t help but smile imagining that exchange. And she’d stuck up for him, too. She thought the Dursleys were just as horrible.

True, she’d always been kinder than most Privet Drive residents, but Harry hadn’t thought much of it. And when he’d gone to help her out, it hadn’t been because he was trying to get her good opinion or anything. Once she’d just had a passel of groceries and he’d been out for a walk anyway, and after that he’d just made a habit of seeking her out Tuesday afternoons whenever he could. She’d started inviting him for tea afterward, which he figured was just her way of repaying him. He never imagined she’d noticed anything about his home life.

But here she’d written a letter more sympathetic than any he’d gotten from the people who’d known him for so much longer. She’d offered to be there for him—hell, she’d braved Snape’s wrath for him. And whether she knew a thing at all about Snape or not, her bravery in that was something astounding. Snape was frightful and intimidating and downright vicious with his words. And this kindly old lady— _Tillie_ , Harry thought with a soft smile—had called the man a lout to his face and criticized his “parenting”.

Harry clutched the letter to his chest. His immediate impulse was to tuck it into his album, where he kept Sirius’ old letters (not that he particularly cared for those anymore, after his godfather’s utter lack of faith) and his correspondence with his friends. But that album was hidden in the shed, and he definitely did not want to risk discovery.

Harry glanced toward the corner of the room, where he’d initially stashed the first stack of letters Snape had given him. It was also, coincidentally, the same area where he’d flung those half-read letters, which were nowhere to be seen.

Maybe Snape had seen them lying on the ground and binned them, or burnt them, without even perusing them, to teach Harry to keep things neat. Though it was odd that he hadn’t mentioned as much. Then again, Snape had seemed puzzled when Harry had declared he didn’t want to answer them. Maybe the Potions Master had gathered them up to read through at his leisure.

Harry shrugged to himself, a wave of resentment rising up in his breast. He was glad to be rid of them, in any case. Let Snape laugh over them. Harry had already decided that he was done with Lupin, done with Sirius, and done with the Weasleys—or, Mrs. Weasley, at least. And maybe Mr. Weasley as well, depending on how much he agreed with his wife on things. He didn’t need them. And if Ron and Hermione weren’t interested in staying friends, he didn’t need them either. After all, if they’d really cared, they would have sent him more letters, and real ones—not the vapid things he’d been getting lately that hardly discussed anything more interesting than the weather and the next year’s reading list.

In fact, the less he expected from them, the less he could be disappointed, right? So wasn’t it better to just set it in his mind that they were drifting apart, and probably wouldn’t want to hang out much the next year?

And he couldn’t blame them, really. Things had happened. He’d shown back up with Cedric’s dead body, and there had to be questions in their minds about that. Even if they believed his story about the graveyard, they were probably thinking that he’d turned out pretty weak and cowardly after all, since he’d let himself get captured, and he hadn’t even been able to attempt to save Cedric. It was probably just too much for them. Easier to break things off, and get away from Harry and his media attention and all the danger he courted.

Harry swiped a sleeve over his eyes. They’d grown damp in the last few minutes. Probably agitated by all the dust in this dingy little room, he thought.

Well, at least Mrs. Applewhite liked him. Not that her support could mean much for him in the end. She knew nothing about who Harry really was, and probably never could know. And if she did find out, she might change her mind and decide that Harry’s relatives had been right after all. She’d probably shake her head and tut like the rest of them, and ooze sympathy to Petunia about how much of a handful her strange nephew must be.

Harry pushed those thoughts away. No, none of that mattered, he told himself firmly. Mrs. Applewhite had seen right through the Dursleys and all their pretenses, and she knew better than to believe Harry was a hooligan. Dudley was the hooligan, after all, and had pretty much proved it here.

Deciding that he needed a new distraction, Harry crawled over to his school trunk and began digging out his old textbooks. It was as good a time as any, he decided, to start on his summer assignments.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry gets grounded.

When Snape knocked on his door later that evening, it was a lot softer and politer than it had been the time before, just three short raps to announce his presence.

Harry rubbed at his itching eyes for a moment. Too much dry history, he thought. But he’d made an effort to go back through the text and review all that he’d completely missed in Binns’ class—which was nearly everything, since the ghost’s droning tones were more potent than a sleeping draught. If nothing else, the text had helped to keep his mind from straying down too many painful paths.

Now he struggled not to allow his anger at Snape to come rushing back. He still loathed the man, and his stomach churned at the prospect of spending any time in his presence. But that was not to be helped for the time being, so Harry shoved that all down, just as he’d done so many times before.

“Yes, sir?” he called, almost managing to sound as though he weren’t grinding his teeth together.

The door cracked open, enough for Snape to speak through the gap at Harry. “Supper is on the table.”

The last thing Harry felt like doing was sharing a meal with Snape, but he knew that he had no real choice in the matter. “Coming, sir.”

Snape lingered at the door, his eyes assessing Harry critically. “There is proper _furniture_ downstairs,” he noted, his tone just a touch cutting.

Harry had to bite his tongue hard to keep from snipping back immediately. “You told me to stay out of your sight, sir—”

“I said no such thing,” Snape growled, swinging the door just a bit wider. “I told you to go rest, which sparked your Great Inquisition, if you recall. Had you simply done as you were told the first time, you might not have misconstrued my remark to mean that I expected you to stay in your room.”

Harry pressed his balled fists hard into his sides, willing them to behave. “I don’t mind staying in here,” he replied coolly. “I never implied that I did. _You’re_ the one who assumed I had a problem with it, like I was sitting on the floor to get sympathy from you or some other insane thing. I didn’t even know you were coming up here!”

Snape’s jaw clenched tight, and Harry swore he could see a muscle ticking there. “I merely meant to say,” the man ground out, “that you are welcome to make use of the parlor downstairs, and that you might find the sofa more comfortable than the hardwood floor. I’ve no interest in hearing you complain about a preventable backache—”

“Well, I won’t complain, sir,” Harry snapped, “ever. So problem solved.”

“Again, Potter, there is no point in self-imposed suffering just to prove a point—”

“Listen, I didn’t—oh, for God’s sake, why am I bothering? You’re going to keep inventing things to yell at me about. So you’re right. I’m stupid and melodramatic and stubborn, and an inconvenience, and disobedient, and I whine constantly. Have I missed anything?”

“Enough!” Snape exploded, the word just a harsh hiss through his teeth. “I only meant to say that you needn’t sit on the floor if you don’t wish.”

 _Well, why in the hell didn’t you just say that?_ Harry thought to himself. Then, aloud, he replied as calmly as he could, “All right, sir.” He stared at Snape, waiting for a reaction. Likely he would snap at Harry for being sarcastic or insincere or something.

Snape actually looked away, and if Harry squinted hard enough, it almost looked as though the man’s cheeks were a touch pinker. “Just—come eat.”

Harry sighed to himself. Maybe, he thought, he should make a point of acting out more. Then Snape could punish him for real crimes, rather than invented ones. Maybe that would make him less… well, unstable.

But he wasn’t about to test out that theory. So he pushed himself to his feet, wincing at the lingering stiffness in his joints, and reluctantly followed Snape back down to the kitchen.

Two places had already been set at the table. That struck Harry as absurd—him and Snape, sitting down for a civil meal. Probably only because Snape didn’t trust him to keep his word about regular meals.

At least the man didn’t seem irate. Or even too irritable, for that matter. He’d barely responded to Harry’s outburst. But really, why couldn’t Snape just mellow out a bit? Why did he have to find fault with everything, right down to Harry’s choice of seating?

Harry took his place at the table while Snape went to pull things off the stove. From the smell of things, there would be mushrooms in something—and that was all Harry could really tell. At least Snape wasn’t a bad cook, though Harry supposed that, after the complexity of brewing potions, something like a stew had to be a snap.

Snape did not allow Harry to serve himself. Instead, he brought each pot over to the table and portioned servings out directly onto Harry’s plate. Mushroom rice first, followed by boiled peas (Harry did his best not to gag), and finally a roasted chicken breast from the oven. There was far too much on his plate by the time Snape was finished, but Harry knew better than to comment on that.

He would just have to find a way to manage, because God knew Snape wasn’t about to budge an inch on anything.

They ate in awkward silence, Harry slowly in an effort to keep from overstuffing himself, and Snape with the slow precision that seemed to characterize most of his behaviors. Tense though the silence was, Harry was glad that Snape was not taking this opportunity to further berate or humiliate him. He would take the breaks where he could get them.

Harry couldn’t bring himself to eat the peas. He tried his best to choke them down, but two forkfuls was all he could stand. And so they sat on his plate in a messy heap, shriveled and unpleasant. Idly, Harry wondered how long he had before Snape forced him to choke them down. Likely accompanied by a lecture on wasted food, or Harry’s pigheadedness.

A glance at Snape’s plate told him that the man was nearly finished; he was down to a few small bites of chicken and a forkful or two of rice.

Harry sighed to himself. He really did want these last few days with Snape to go as smoothly as possible, especially during his trial, and fighting over trivial things (even if it was Snape who was so damned unreasonable and quarrelsome) would make the rest of this week anything but. So Harry steeled himself to choke down the rest of that unpleasant little heap. He shoveled one spoonful in—God, the taste was positively nauseating!

And then the remains vanished from his plate.

Harry’s head snapped up to Snape, who’d withdrawn his wand and had apparently vanished the peas with a wordless spell. Harry just stared, dumbstruck, as Snape slipped the wand back into his sleeve, his gaze nowhere near Harry’s

“I will not force you to eat things you detest.” Snape stood and collected their dishes.

“I didn’t say—”

“You didn’t need to.” Snape said nothing more as he piled dishes in the sink.

Harry watched as Snape filled the sink with water, then withdrew what appeared to be a new bottle of dish soap from the cupboard below. Harry couldn’t figure out why the man would possibly be doing them by hand—

Oh. Because he expected Harry to do them. With a sigh, he pushed himself to his feet. He supposed he’d had a restful enough afternoon that a little labor now would not be so terrible. Even if it was completely unnecessary, since Snape could tidy things up with a wave or two of his wand.

He hovered behind Snape uncertainly, waiting for the man to step aside so that he could get to things.

Snape did not move, though. He merely started washing the plates with methodical precision.

Harry searched around for a dishtowel, and spied one on the counter beside the stove. When he made to grab the rinsed plate that Snape had set to the side of the sink, though, the Potions Master turned to him and gave a small but unmistakable shake of his head.

“Leave it.”

Again. Harry’s stomach gave a little flip. He actually would have preferred for Snape to have turned the whole task over to him, he realized. Because that would have been normal. That would have been understandable.

But this? Snape telling him to rest, and inviting Harry to use his parlor, and all but refusing to allow Harry to help with the dishes? This terrified him. He felt like Alice after she’d tripped into the rabbit hole.

“What do you want me to do then? Sir?”

Snape paused in his washing. He did not turn to look at Harry, or snap or glare at him. In fact, his hands seemed to be gripping the plate he was washing unnaturally tightly. “Whatever you wish. I prefer that you are in bed no later than midnight.”

Prefer. What did Snape mean, prefer? Why didn’t he just say what he really meant? _Potter, if you are not out of sight by midnight, if I hear so much as a peep out of you after that, you will wish you’d never been born_.

And that _whatever you wish_. What was he playing at?

Harry just stared at Snape’s back, trying to make sense of things. If Snape had wanted to torture him—or just make him mildly miserable—he would have Harry working again. He wouldn’t have banished the peas, or healed Harry’s hands, or given him the letter from Mrs. Applewhite. He wouldn’t have stated Harry’s bedtime as a preference.

Maybe Snape was feeling guilty now for pushing Harry so far the other day. Likely it was all just pity. Snape felt sorry for poor Potter now, since all the other adults had thought the worst of him too, and clearly that had hurt Harry’s feelings….

Well, Harry wasn’t going to stand for that. He’d rather have Snape furious with him than feeling sorry for him. “Whatever I wish. Right.” His thoughts immediately returned to Snape’s reaction earlier upon finding him up on the roof, and he smiled grimly to himself. Yes, he’d just be a good boy and finish that little project up. And if it made Snape angry (though he still couldn’t fathom _why_ the man’s reaction should be so extreme, since he knew how accidental magic worked, and how durable wizarding kids were compared to Muggles), well, that would just be icing on the cake.

And up on the roof, prying off shingles, was where Snape found him not half an hour later.

“POTTER!”

Harry sighed theatrically, as if he’d been interrupted in the middle of an important task. “Yes, sir?”

“Down—now!”

“Coming, sir.” Harry made a show of dusting off his hands, then slowly working his way toward the ladder. He took the descent one rung at a time, pausing between each, before finally reaching the ground. He expected Snape to seize him by the collar, just as he’d done before—but not this time. Though Harry could feel the man’s intense gaze boring straight into him.

Harry turned slowly, pushing down the nervousness he suddenly felt. This had been a stupid idea. What had he been thinking? So what if Snape pitied him. At least he’d been less of a bastard. Now….

“Your hand, Potter,” Snape demanded through gritted teeth, extending his own hand palm-up expectantly. “Now.”

Harry hesitated before extending one, not sure of what was about to happen.

“The other, you imbecile!” Snape ground out impatiently. “The one with the ring.”

Harry obeyed, wincing at the acute pressure of Snape’s fingers closing around his wrist. The man tapped his wand to the ring he’d transfigured and uttered a low incantation too muddled for Harry to make out.

Oh. The threatened grounding spell. Now he remembered. Harry snatched his hand back immediately and glowered up at Snape. “So where am I confined to?”

Snape’s heavy scowl twisted into a sneer. “What are you talking about?”

“Grounding spell—you said… am I stuck inside the house now?”

“It is a _grounding spell,_ Potter, not a modification of the restriction spell. The only difference now is that your feet are not allowed more than two feet up from the floor, since you _obviously_ cannot be trusted to exercise common sense.”

Harry just glared at the man at that. “Oh yeah, go ahead and pretend to be concerned about my safety. Pretend this isn’t about—about—”

“About what?” Snape inquired silkily, stepping in close so that he towered over Harry. Harry took an automatic step back. “What else could this possibly be about?”

“Controlling me—”

“Yes, you’re right,” Snape agreed, dripping sarcasm, “I obviously desire nothing more than to control you. I’ve given you so many instructions this evening, haven’t I? It’s a wonder you found time to climb up onto the damned roof at all.”

Harry’s cheeks warmed. “What I do doesn’t concern you—”

“No, Potter, on the contrary. Whilst I am acting as your guardian, your behavior and activities _very_ much concern me. You slipping off of the roof and breaking your neck just to spite me, for example.”

“I’m not going to break my neck, for God’s sake! It’s not even that far up! You’re just—”

“And how would you possibly know that you would not break your neck?” Snape interrupted sharply. “Or otherwise seriously injure yourself? Hm?”

“Because I was fine when—” Harry clammed right up then. Damn it, he’d been a breath away from giving Snape even more ammunition on his abysmal childhood. This time voluntarily. He was an idiot.

“When?” Snape prompted, his voice turning needle-sharp.

Excited at the depraved details, Harry thought angrily. Snape couldn’t wait to hear more. “Never mind,” he muttered.

“Regardless,” Snape continued, his voice more tightly controlled than it had been, “for the time being, your feet will remain firmly planted on the ground.”

“Fine. Sir.” Harry made to shoulder past Snape, deciding that he would at least pick up the yard, which was littered with detritus from his work on the roof.

Snape caught him by the upper arm, though. “We are not through,” he spat. “You will explain to me this instant what you thought you were doing, going up there in direct defiance of my orders.”

Harry shrugged weakly. Truth be told, his reasoning seemed flimsy and petty now.

“No, Potter, that is not an acceptable response. Try again.”

“Because I’m arrogant and aggravating and thought it would be fun to disobey you.”

Snape’s hand tightened on his arm. “If you do not straighten up and give me an honest answer this instant, boy, you can spend the rest of your evening with your nose in a corner like the recalcitrant child you are proving to be!”

“I did give you an honest answer!” Harry cried, trying to twist out of Snape’s grip. “What more do you want me to say? I wanted to make you angry, so I did exactly what you told me not to do! And I’m not sorry for it, so go ahead! Stick me in a corner, or do whatever else it is you want to do to punish me! I don’t care!”

“Why did you want me angry?” Snape asked, his voice suddenly intense and far too level to be natural.

“Spite, like you said—”

“No, that’s not it. What did you really intend?”

Harry tried once more to pull himself out of Snape’s grasp, but Snape had his arm in a vice grip, and this time when Harry started struggling the Potions Master hauled him back so that his back was against the wall of the house, trapped there by Snape’s body. “I hate you and I wanted to set you off! There’s nothing more than that—”

“There is,” Snape cut him off once more. “Tell me.”

“It’s not some big mystery! For God’s sake—”

“We can do this all night, Potter. Why did you deliberately seek to anger me?”

“Because I know how to deal with you when you’re angry, all right?” Harry burst out at last. “Because I know what to expect. Because if you’re actively hating me, then you won’t waste any more time on pitying me.”

Snape released him suddenly, snatching his hand back as if Harry’s arm had suddenly become red-hot metal. “I don’t pity you—”

“The hell you don’t! I don’t need you being nice just because you feel sorry for me, all right? No more walking on tenterhooks, telling me to rest and thinking I’m so fragile that I can’t put up with a vegetable I don’t like. You just go back to being a vicious, vindictive bastard and we’ll get through however much longer I have to stay here, all right?”

“I do not think that you are fragile, Potter—”

“You think I’m going to crumble to dust from missing a few meals! That I’m going to kill myself just by doing a few household chores! I can’t believe this, but I actually preferred it when you were a cold-hearted bastard. So go back to that, all right? It’ll be easier on the both of us, and you won’t have to strain yourself anymore pretending to care about me.”

Snape watched him silently for a few moments, expression impassive once again, thought this time with a much greater intensity of focus. Harry shifted uneasily beneath the weight of it.

Eventually the waiting became too much to bear. “Well?” Harry demanded at last.

“Well?” Snape echoed, tilting his head slightly and arching one brow.

“What’s my punishment?”

“A shower and an early bed time. Go. You may read in your room, but I want you in bed as soon as you’ve finished bathing.”

Harry couldn’t help but gape at the man. “I told you I’m not fragile—”

“Mr. Potter, you have already severely displeased me this evening. If you cannot follow my very simple instructions, I will escort you upstairs and see to it that you do as you are told for once. I somehow doubt that you want it to come to that.”

Harry continued to glare bitterly at Snape. “Yes, sir.”

It occurred to Harry that Snape was still not being much of a bastard. And that just made Harry all the angrier.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hearing is scheduled, and Harry is relieved to finally go back to his awful Muggle relatives. Probably.

The bathroom was clean. Harry couldn’t help but stare into the transformed space for a good while immediately after mounting the stairs. Snape had not only magicked it clean, but he’d stocked it with new matching towels, and even gone so far as to set out a small collection of toiletries on the counter.

Harry figured the man had gotten sick of the state of the room and, since Harry no longer needed to be punished, had tidied it up.

He’d even fixed the plumbing, Harry discovered, after nearly scalding himself by cranking up the hot water as far as it would go. He’d known better than to make free with Snape’s actual toiletries, of course; these were not some holdovers from previous residents, and were likely not meant for the precious Boy-Who-Lived, even if they were set out invitingly on the counter. Ha, Snape had likely done it deliberately, just so he could have something to yell about later. So he stuck to the remnants of the old bar of soap, which wasn’t so bad. It was better than nothing.

But there were no other towels available, so Harry luxuriated in the overlarge seafoam bath towel that he found hanging on the rack. Small comfort, but Harry knew he could use more than a few of those, given how pear-shaped everything was going lately.

He dried off quickly, still doing his damnedest to keep all his whirling thoughts safely dammed behind a wall in his mind. Snape’s utterly incomprehensible behavior. This… “punishment”. His leniency in light of that awful interrogation….

Fuck Snape. Fuck the man’s—whatever. Pity, even if Snape denied it. It _was_ pity, after all, because what else would have _Snape_ , the hell-born terror of Slytherin House, tiptoeing around poor Harry Potter, sending him for a shower and an early bedtime after being so blatantly disrespected? Christ, Snape hadn’t even seemed mad. Irritated, yes, but if Harry had stood before him any other time and had the stones to tell him, to his face, that he’d done something just because he hated Snape, just to piss the man off, Snape would have buried him. A million points for disrespect, detention until he was thirty.

Not a bath and reading in bed.

Harry dressed himself quickly, once again forcing all those thoughts away. A few more days. Today was Wednesday, the trial was Friday. Friday afternoon he’d be headed back to his lovely relatives where he would be openly disdained. Where he would know exactly what to expect.

There, he would not make the mistake of spending too much time out of the house again. He would remain locked in his room as much as possible, even if it drove him absolutely mad. And he would work at scrubbing all memory of time spent with his hated professor from his mind.

He returned to his room, dredged up a textbook from his trunk (Herbology tonight) and settled back onto the bed. The heaviness of the bedclothes was a strange comfort after having had to make do with a mish-mash of clothing. There were even multiple pillows for him to fluff up and prop himself against, a luxury he’d never been afforded at the Dursley’s.

He tried to reread the textbook. Tried to lose himself in the chapters and illustrations of fantastical magical plants (though Herbology had never been his _favorite_ subject, per se). Tried to take interest in the magical cave fungi that glowed and gave off spores that would send most full-grown adults into a blood-frenzy, tearing at any moving creature in sight with their bare hands until the proper antidote was administered.

But all he could think about was the way Snape had shaken his head, all but forbidding Harry from doing the dishes. The way he’d ordered Harry down from the roof, livid, snarling about Harry falling and breaking his neck. The way he didn’t seem to understand that Harry rode around at unfathomable speeds on a skinny stick chasing after a little golden ball, often going as far as thirty times as high as that damned roof, above ground that certainly had not been covered with Cushioning Charms.

Maybe the man really _was_ worried about how Dumbledore would react. Ha, of course he was, because Harry was the precious, spoilt little savior, right? And the way his relatives had treated him had just been overlooked up until this point. Snape feared that if _he_ repeated the treatment, Dumbledore would rake him over the coals.

Snape still didn’t get what Harry had told him, then. That Dumbledore wouldn’t care so long as Harry was alive at the end of the summer. And he would be. The Dursleys were horrible, but they weren’t _that_ horrible.

Pity and fear of Dumbledore. That was all this was.

Harry gave up reading, letting his Herbology text thunk carelessly to the ground beside his bed. He was tired after the morning anyway, and wasn’t that pathetic? He’d worked full days at the Dursleys without feeling this exhausted. Or maybe he _had_ been this exhausted, but hadn’t had the chance to really notice, seeing as he was expected to muddle through and complete his chores without complaint.

He fell into an uneasy sleep late that night after hours of staring at the wall, wondering why Snape had ordered him down from the roof instead of recasting those oh-so-important Cushioning Charms.

XXXXX

Thursday passed uneventfully, with Snape ignoring Harry (except to issue stern reminders at mealtimes). Harry busied himself with cleaning up the backyard, but that didn’t take much time, and as soon as that chore had been completed he found himself at a loss for what to do. Snape had disappeared into his lab, which Harry had confirmed was in the cellar, and Harry knew better than to disturb the man’s work.

So the hours dragged on as Harry tried to amuse himself with his textbooks, which he read on the sofa in the parlor so that Snape could not come up for a random inspection and find fault with Harry’s choice of seating.

His textbooks didn’t do much to hold his attention. Harry almost wished for Snape to come back and start sniping at him, because that, at least, would make for a decent distraction. God, he would love to yell at the man some more. Though he wasn’t stupid enough to start bellowing at the Professor out of the blue like some lunatic. Not yet, at least.

He was bored enough to risk browsing through Snape’s bookshelves (though not brave enough, certainly, to touch any of the tomes). It was as odd a collection, he thought, as it was extensive. And not nearly as neglected as the rest of the house. There was not even a thin layer of dust on the shelves, which contained everything from Muggle literature to expensive-looking tomes on magical theory. Nothing on the Dark Arts, though Harry guessed that Snape wouldn’t leave anything like that just lying around.

Actually, there were a few well-worn volumes on Defense that he thought he might not mind perusing. Not that he was suicidal enough to touch Snape’s personal property. The man would skin him alive.

So Harry contented himself with re-reading his own books, even Potions (though the material from that quarter was dry enough to nearly put him to sleep). He was reviewing Transfigurations, thinking about how pleased McGonagall would be, when Snape swept into the parlor that evening.

“Dinner,” he announced in the same cool, impersonal tone he’d adopted for the day.

Harry did not meet the man’s stare. He carefully closed his book and set it on the coffee table, on top of the others he’d brought down. His body was stiff again beneath him, the muscles taut, as he waited for the inevitable confrontation. He’d been waiting the whole day, in fact.

Because surely Snape had plenty to say to him regarding his behavior the previous day. Surely he’d decided, after the appropriate seething, to take Harry up on the offer to return to the role of vicious tormentor. Surely he’d had enough time by now to have adequately formulated a plan to strip Harry down and reduce him to a sniveling mess.

But still Snape showed no indication that he even disliked Harry. Every fiber of his being seemed to project utter indifference.

Harry found he cared for this new attitude as much as he cared for the pity. At least the man’s loathing was genuine; there was something to be said for honesty, after all.

Then again, maybe Snape had decided he was done wasting time on Harry Bloody Potter. Maybe he’d decided to do his best to ignore his unwanted house guest for the short time they had left in each other’s company.

It didn’t matter, Harry reminded himself. They’d weather the hearing tomorrow, and then he could count on not seeing Severus Bloody Snape again until the farce Hogwarts liked to label “Potions Class”. So he grit his teeth, pushed himself to his feet, and trudged into the kitchen for what he hoped would be the second-to-last obligatory meal at the man’s table.

Snape still did not let Harry serve himself, instead snatching Harry’s plate and portioning out servings just as he’d done ever since returning from his mysterious errands the other day. Harry dug into the meal, knowing full well that he wouldn’t be allowed to leave until he’d cleaned his plate. He’d found out the other day that Snape had surreptitiously cast some kind of Sticking Charm on his chair that would not release him until it deemed he’d consumed an appropriate amount. Stupid bastard.

“Your family will be at the hearing tomorrow,” he informed the boy, “your cousin as a witness. I suspect the case will not be thrown out as quickly as one might hope, so I would prepare for a longer affair, possibly lasting into the afternoon.”

Harry didn’t know what to make of those words. A warning from Snape, then? Was he being told in advance so that he wouldn’t lose himself and attack his cousin like some kind of deranged animal? “I can control myself, sir,” he muttered coldly, using his fork to decimate his steamed carrots.

“Hm.” A neutral sound, one of neither confidence nor doubt. Harry wanted to stab the man with his butter knife for it. “You may be called as a witness to a later hearing, once they’ve begun to try your cousin and his friends. It may be wise to prepare you with a Calming Draught—”

“I said I can control myself,” Harry spat, digging his fork down so hard that the tines scraped into the porcelain and the metal started to give way. “Sir.” He tried to push himself up from the table but the Sticking Charm was holding him fast. He growled in frustration, his hands both clenching into bloodless fists.

“It is not a question of control,” Snape replied calmly. “You are bound to be affected by seeing your relatives, and in a combative setting where they will likely be doing their level best to prove you guilty—”

“Let me up,” Harry interrupted, attempting to stand and taking the chair with him. “I’m not going to sit here and listen to you—”

“Mr. Potter, you will sit down and finish your meal.” Snape’s voice turned steely and sharp, leaving no room for disobedience. “This. Instant.”

Harry had the sudden violent urge to knock his whole plate to the ground. To hell with decorum! To hell with not pissing Snape off! He’d already tried and failed yesterday, hadn’t he? Maybe he’d get lucky today, end this strange _mood_ , whatever it was.

Instead, he bit out, “I’m not hungry—”

“You are being childish, and if you do not cease these histrionics _immediately_ I will remedy the situation myself by force-feeding you and sending you to bed. Is that clear?”

Ah. Humiliation. Because physical labor hadn’t worked to break Harry, Snape was moving on to treating Harry like a child. _That_ was what he’d done last night, wasn’t it? Maybe he’d thought Harry to be a great deal more mortified than he actually was. Maybe he’d imagined that Harry had fumed all night at the sheer indignity of being sent to bed early.

“Fine,” he agreed, meeting Snape’s narrowed black eyes in challenge. “Go ahead. But I’m not going to sit here and listen to you go on about how much of a head case I am. I won’t!”

“No one said anything of the sort. Now sit _down_ ”—this Snape reinforced with a burst of wandless magic that Harry had only previously seen from Dumbledore—“and do as you are told.”

Now the chair itself was glued to the floor, rendering Harry entirely immobile. It appeared that Snape had not even made the amateur mistake of applying the Sticking Charm to Harry’s clothes, which was a shame, because in that moment Harry would have gladly doffed his trousers just to be free of the bastard’s presence.

Being trapped at the table, though, staring down an irate Snape, did not preclude Harry from fighting back, at least on some level. He folded his arms over his chest and stared the man down, his chest heaving with the force of his breathing. He glared steadily at Snape, daring the man to carry through with his threat.

Snape stared right back, but none of the disgusted fury that Harry had expected showed itself in his expression. Instead, his answering glare seemed entirely composed of frustration—exasperation, even. Whatever it was, it was too benign for Harry to trust.

After a few moments the man stood and swept out of the room. Harry was about to scream after him—was about ready to flip over the whole damned table, even—when Snape returned, a vial in hand. He set it on the table before Harry and commanded curtly, “Drink.”

Harry shoved the vial away. “You’re mad if you think I’m going to let you dose me with some—”

“It is a Calming Draught,” Snape cut him off, “and clearly you need it if you are unable to even discuss tomorrow’s proceedings without devolving into hysterics—”

“There’s nothing to discuss, and there’s nothing about tomorrow that is causing me to be hysterical! You think my aunt and uncle telling everyone I’m a criminal is something new? Do you know what they say about me when I’m away at Hogwarts, what they tell the neighbors? That I’m in a secure institute for Incurably Criminal boys. Why the hell do you think all of them just accepted that I’d committed a felony?”

“Potter—”

“I’m not hysterical, I’m _pissed_ that I have to sit here and listen to you go on about how unstable I am when you don’t know a damned thing. Honestly, I’d rather go back to jail and take my chances with the Death Eaters than deal with another second of you bullying me just because you can—”

“Potter!” Snape interrupted, raising his voice. The volume, and the dangerous note in it—the one that said that Snape was close to snapping—froze Harry’s words in his throat and had him averting his gaze to the table. “Do not— _ever_ —make flippant comments about your life, including ones concerning the many forces that could easily end it, in my presence. I will not countenance you making a mockery of the sacrifices made for you thus far. Is. That. Clear?”

That rebuke managed to touch Harry. Much as he hated Snape, much as he wished to pretend the bastard was always wrong, he knew the truth there. Knew it every time the Dementors approached, knew it from that agonized scream that he could not purge from his memory no matter how hard he tried. His mother, and his father, had given everything they possessed for him. The least he could do was show that he respected that. Even in front of Snape.

“Yes, sir,” he replied quietly.

For a moment the room was silent, save for Snape’s angry breathing, which gradually calmed with each passing second. Then at last the Professor continued. “I never remotely implied that you are unstable. You are about to face something of an ordeal tomorrow, one that I can imagine would unnerve any fully-fledged adult, not to mention a… young man… of your particular history.”

Harry heard the hesitation, and was certain that Snape had just barely restrained himself from calling Harry a child, as if such a thing might set him off again. Which it probably would have.

“I merely thought to offer you a means of relief. An emotional dampening agent for the stress of tomorrow.”

The words were even and… respectful. Harry’s tongue felt stuck in his throat. He wanted to doubt Snape’s sincerity, but it was hard to do so in face of this—a complete absence of any belittling comments or scathing retorts. And it was true, too, that he hadn’t even said anything that offensive earlier—just offered the Calming Draught, and warned Harry about the Dursleys. And Harry had flown off the handle.

Damn it. No wonder Snape had brought him the Draught. Harry forced himself to take a few deep breaths, then replied as contritely as he could manage, “I’m sorry, sir. I… I didn’t understand.”

Three heartbeats of unbearable silence, and then Snape replied, his tone equally calm, “It is no matter. We will put it behind us.”

Positively magnanimous, coming from Snape. Unbelievably so. But Harry knew the saying about gift horses.

Harry heard the soft chink of glass against wood, and lifted his head to find that Snape had slid the Calming Draught back toward him. So he wasn’t about to let this go. Well, fine. Harry snatched it up, uncorked it, and downed it as quickly as he could. At least it was one of the chalkier brews rather than the bitter, unpleasant ones.

It did not take long, just seconds, for the blanket-like sensation of the draught to settle over him. His lingering anger faded to a bare prickling of irritation, and even that did not seem terribly important.

“Finish your meal.”

Harry vaguely resented the high-handed way Snape passed off that order, but again, it was not enough to provoke a response. And with the fury in his stomach soothed by the potion he was able to fully recognize how hungry he was.

So he dragged his plate back in front of him, shot an irritated glare at Snape, and did as he was bade.

Snape settled back into his own chair, his dark eyes never leaving Harry. “We will leave at ten tomorrow so that we may arrive at the Apparition Point with time to spare. I expect you will be ready by that time, dressed in appropriate clothing for the hearing.”

Harry’s fogged mind began to mentally sift through the contents of his trunk. Yeah, he had a decent pair of trousers, and an old dress shirt of Dudley’s that was a few years old, and therefore not horrendously oversized on him. He hoped that would meet Snape’s exacting standards.

There was a pause, one that hung awkwardly over them for a moment, before Snape continued in that same level tone, “Do you have any concerns or questions?”

Harry poked at his green beans unenthusiastically as he tried to formulate a response. “I suppose I should have my things packed?” he mumbled at last. His thoughts strayed to the album in the shed. An unpleasant tingle of panic broke through the calm. He would have to find a way to retrieve it, preferably without Snape ever knowing…. Damn it, why hadn’t this occurred to him sooner?

“For what?” Snape questioned, setting his own fork down rather suddenly.

Harry scraped his tines against the plate slightly. “To leave tomorrow. After….”

“And just where do you believe you will be going?”

Harry gripped the fork tightly enough that the hard edge of the metal bit into his hand. “Back to the Dursleys’, since you said I’ll be cleared—”

“You will not ever be returning to those wastes of flesh,” Snape retorted quickly, his words harsh and decisive. “What makes you believe that you would be allowed after their disgraceful behavior?”

Harry sighed. “They really believe I’m a criminal, you know. It’s ridiculous, but they’re afraid of magic. I think if someone talks to them they won’t make the mistake of letting me rot away in a detention facility again—”

“I am not referring to this most recent incident, Potter. Your relatives have been abusive and neglectful—”

The Calming Draught was definitely failing. Harry’s voice notched up of its own accord, to a point that it blistered the flesh of his throat. “Don’t you talk as if you know a damned thing! You forced all of that out of me, and you have it all twisted up!”

“There is no twisting those bare facts,” Snape replied, his voice still soft and unperturbed. “But we are not going to argue this. You will not be returning to your relatives, not tomorrow, and not ever.”

A touch of hope wormed its way into Harry’s chest. “Where will I go, then? To the Burrow?” It was so early in the summer. He’d never expected that this would be an option, even.

Though that thought was immediately followed by the memory of the letter Mrs. Weasley had sent. And maybe it was petty and childish, but he didn’t think he could bear to be in her care, not if that maternal front she put up was nothing after all. Not if she could turn and think the worst of him at the drop of a hat.

Snape did not respond immediately, and it was that delay that gave Harry his answer. But then the man spelled it out for him anyway. “No. You will not be going anywhere; you will remain here until we have decided such an arrangement is no longer in your best interests.”

Harry dropped his fork and drew his arms back to himself. He wanted to wrap them around himself but he knew that Snape would scoff at him for that show of weakness. So he contented himself with clenching his fists in his lap.

“There—there has to be something else—”

“There is nothing. It is too much of a risk to place you with others while the Dark Lord is active—”

“You’re pretending to serve him! How is having me stay here, right under his _nose_ practically, not a risk?”

Snape sighed as one might when exasperated with a stubborn child. “It is precisely for that reason that remaining here with me is your best option. I will know before the others what he might be planning, or if we are called, in which case you will be removed to a safe location—”

“Why can’t I just stay in this ‘safe location’ then? Because it’s Hogwarts and students aren’t allowed? This is my _life_ we’re talking about—”

“Yes, Potter, we are all well aware. And you are in no position to understand the complex factors that we must consider when making these decisions. We will just have to learn to bear each other’s company for a little longer.”

Harry clenched his fists more tightly, so that his short nails dug into his palms. “I’m not a child. You might try actually _explaining_ things to me before deciding that they’re too horribly complex for my little brain to comprehend. Except we all know what you think of my brain, so why am I even bothering—”

“You will not bait me into a screaming match, Mr. Potter. Finish eating.”

“No!” Harry retorted without thinking. “Not until you explain to me why I have to stay here. There has to be something else. I could stay with Hermione, maybe, or—or Remus.” Though he remembered as soon as he said it that he actually didn’t want to stay with Remus. Or speak to him at all, for that matter. Never mind that Remus was a werewolf and therefore legally incapable of acting as his guardian. “Maybe Neville—”

“I _have_ explained,” Snape interrupted, “but you have not deigned to listen. The danger is too great; the protection measures are inadequate. Lupin is not legally allowed to look after you. Your godfather is a wanted fugitive. The Weasley home and the Granger residence are far too vulnerable, not to mention prime targets for Death Eater raids. I have already agreed to house and protect you for the remainder of the summer—”

“Well, I _haven’t_ agreed, not that it means a damned thing to any of you! The Dursleys already agreed to take me on too, so just dump me back there. I’ll stay in the house, okay? I won’t go beyond the yard. You can even do your fancy little spell to keep me there if you want. I’m not staying here—”

“You are,” Snape hissed, bringing his hand down hard on the table, causing Harry to flinch. “That is final, not open to discussion or negotiation. Bring it up again, Potter, and I will have you writing lines on respecting the judgment of your elders until your hand cramps. Have I made myself clear?”

Harry forced himself to stare down at his lap. Seeing Snape’s sneer would just drive him further into a frenzy at this point, and that was the last thing they needed. So he forced out instead, through clenched teeth, “Crystal, sir.”

“I have work to see to. You will finish your meal and retire for the night. The hex will release once you have cleaned your plate. Do not test me, Potter, not on this.” With that Snape swept out of the room, a gliding mass of seething shadows.

Harry longed to fling the whole damned plate across the room, to hear it shatter against the wall. He wanted to scream after Snape that he was an ass, that he wouldn’t be forced to live out the rest of his summer here, the only place on the face of the planet that was worse than the Dursley’s . He wanted to bend his silverware back just to alleviate some of the indescribable rage that was coursing through him.

He did none of those things, though. He slowly counted to ten, forcing himself to breathe deeply. He let his nails continue to dig deep into the flesh of the palms so that the pain would ground him. And then, after several long moments, when he finally felt that he was calm, he picked up his fork and resumed eating. He wasn’t about to provoke Snape and see what the man would do to have his way.

And as he chewed methodically, barely tasting the food, he revised his inner mantra. _One more day_ became _two more months_. _Eight more weeks. Sixty more days._

But no matter how he tried to reformulate it, the rest of summer spent in this dingy little house with Snape sounded like a sentence that would last for something just short of an eternity.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hearing, and a lunch date.

Harry didn’t want to leave the bedroom. He knew that it had to be getting close to the time they were scheduled to depart. He was dressed and ready to go—school trousers and Dudley’s slightly-overlarge dress shirt, which he’d tucked into his waistband as best he could to give the illusion that the shirt might have been bought with him in mind.

He wasn’t going to see Snape a second sooner than he had to. If possible, he would wait for Snape to come to him, impatient to be off. Then there would be no time for conversation, no time for insults or ultimatums, just the rush to the train station (were they taking the train?) and the ensuing tension that would only grow over the journey.

Snape did come to him. He rapped on the door, and did not wait for a response before he pushed it open.

He’d donned a dress shirt and pressed trousers for the day, all dark, and even tied his less-than-greasy hair back at the nape of his neck. It looked a far sight better than the usual stringy, limp locks that framed his face, but Harry knew better than to remark upon it.

“You need to eat breakfast,” he stated plainly, his tone strangely bereft of malice.

Harry opened his mouth to offer the politest formulation he could manage of “piss off”, but Snape cut him off before he could get the words out.

“Do you have a tie, Mr. Potter?”

Harry felt himself flush at that question. Rather than respond, he turned angrily to his trunk and began digging for one of his school ties. If he didn’t have to speak to Snape, he wouldn’t. Simple as that.

He finally found one and had just begun tying it around his neck when he felt Snape leave the room. He almost breathed a sigh of relief, but the professor returned in just seconds.

“Here.” He was offering out a slate-grey tie, shiny enough that it looked to be silk. “This is preferable.”

Harry stared at it for a moment. What in the bloody hell was this? Snape was lending him clothing? It was just a tie, of course, but still…. “Mine’s good,” he mumbled uncertainly.

Snape just shook the tie slightly. “Humor me, Potter.”

Harry did. After yesterday, after learning of the long weeks ahead of him, he didn’t have any fight left in him. Eyes still averted, he discarded his school tie and began to do up the other. When he’d adjusted it properly, he turned back to Snape, carefully keeping his gaze directed at the doorframe just beside the professor.

Snape suddenly drew his dark wand. Harry shrank back instinctively, wondering if the man was finally going to give in to the urge to hex his least favorite student.

Snape froze as soon as Harry reacted. A glance at his face revealed a drawn mouth and an unusually stark pale tinge to his skin. His hand lowered fractionally and he cleared his throat slightly. “Would you permit me to adjust your shirt?”

Oh. Harry felt like a sniveling idiot. Snape had not, after all, actually hurt him, magically or otherwise. He’d been an insensitive bastard and violated his privacy, sure. He’d been verbally cruel and ruthless. But he hadn’t done anything so inappropriate as start cursing Harry.

So Harry forced himself to swallow and replied, “Yeah, that’s fine—sir.”

Harry waited, but Snape still did not cast anything. After a moment, he said quietly, “As I will be presenting myself as your father today, I think it’s best you get into the habit of addressing me informally.”

That threw Harry for a loop. “You mean… you want me to call you what, d—father?” He couldn’t bring himself to say the other word.

Snape’s expression remained unreadable. “If you wish. Simply refraining from ‘sir’ or ‘Professor’ would also be acceptable.”

Harry had to quash the urge to laugh bitterly. Snape had spent how many years insisting Harry always address him with an honorific, and now he was advising him to refrain? Not that Harry didn’t understand the logic of it, and he was certainly aware that Snape probably hated the necessity of this. But still, it was amusing to think that he now had permission to address the man as though they were on familiar terms. As though they were _family_.

“All right, s—all right.” A glance up told him that Snape was not about to throttle him for leaving off the sir. Which was strange, and left Harry with an unsettled feeling.

Snape nodded slightly, then raised his wand once more. He drew it in a tight, complex pattern, and immediately Harry felt the dress shirt starting to tighten around him, the sleeves shrinking, the fabric tightening over his shoulders, until the garment finally him like it had been painstakingly tailored for him. He couldn’t deny that it was a nice feeling.

It was a shame that he and Snape hated each other, else he could have asked the professor to teach him that particular spell. Oh well.

“Thanks.” He couldn’t help but let a little of his gratitude seep into that word, despite the fact that he was still fairly angry at Snape.

“You’re welcome.” Snape returned his wand to the sleeve of the (shockingly) black button-up shirt that he’d donned for the day. “What would you like for breakfast?”

Harry averted his eyes again. He had a feeling that “nothing” would not be tolerated as a response. So he shrugged instead.

Snape sighed heavily. “I understand that you are not happy with arrangements. However, you will not use that as an excuse to refuse to eat.”

Harry clenched his jaw. This was going to get old, and fast. “May I make myself something?”

Snape stepped out of the doorframe and into the hallway, gesturing for him to go—though not, surprisingly, with a sneer and a sarcastic flourish. The movement was tight and controlled, the man’s expression shuttered.

Harry drew a deep breath and headed downstairs. He would pretend Snape wasn’t there. He would ignore the man. He headed straight for the fridge, planning on cramming down the first thing he saw. Cheese. Good. He grabbed the block out and went to the counter to cut a chunk off. He didn’t care what he ate, and Snape hadn’t given him specifics, just told him that he had to have something. This would do.

“Mr. Potter.”

Harry ground his teeth harder in an effort to stifle his knee-jerk response to that voice.

“What else are you having?”

“I don’t know, sir.” He lopped off a thin slice of cheddar, then returned the block to the fridge.

“Would you care for eggs?”

God, that almost sounded… solicitous. Not that a couple of fried eggs could make up for what Snape had done, of course. “No thanks.”

“Toast, then? Meat or potatoes?”

“Just this.” Harry braced himself for the shouting, or the lecturing, or whatever came next.

Snape sidled into the room and eased himself into a seat at the table. His eyes were sharp and observant, as always, and Harry found himself ready to be dissected by that gaze.

“Coffee or tea?” he offered mildly.

Harry almost sarcastically asked what Snape thought would pair best with a hunk of cheddar cheese. He didn’t, though, in the end, just shook his head and took a bite of the cold cheese.

Snape did not say anything more. He just watched Harry, his face still smooth. He did not even quirk an eyebrow in that way of his, the one that imparted so much judgment so efficiently. Nor did he demand that Harry sit with him at the table. When Harry had consumed his meager piece of cheese, Snape stood and beckoned to him.

“It is time we were off.”

Harry nodded listlessly. He wished it were anyone but Snape accompanying him today. Even Remus, or Sirius, or one of the Weasleys, though he was still angry with all of them and not very inclined to simply forgive them for their presumptions.

“As far as anyone is concerned, your mother passed unexpectedly when you were very young due to the complications of a rare disease. We had already separated by the time she passed, and I had taken up a job that required me to travel. Because of this, and because I had not been involved in your life, I determined to leave you with your relatives, who agreed to raise you. I have only been able to visit you occasionally over the years, as my work keeps me very busy. I recently discovered how your aunt and uncle have abused you—”

“They haven’t,” Harry cut the professor off. “They never really laid hands on me—”

That was enough to cause Snape’s face to crease with severe irritation. “There is more than one kind of abuse, Potter. But we are not arguing this now; that is the story for the day, and I expect you will stick to it. Do you have any questions?”

Harry wanted to protest that the professor didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, but he sensed that the man would not allow them to be sucked into any sort of discussion at the moment, not with an appointment looming over the both of them. And Harry really did want to get through this hearing.

“No, sir.”

“Remember to drop the ‘sir’,” Snape instructed. “Take hold of my arm.” He offered one out to Harry.

Harry forced himself to draw a deep breath. He didn’t want to do this, he realized. He didn’t want to sit in a Muggle courtroom before some tight-arsed magistrate and plead that he wasn’t a juvenile delinquent. He didn’t want to listen in public, on the official record, as his supposed family tried to pass him off as such, tried to argue that he was no better than a common thief, that he’d never been any better.

“Calming Draught?” Snape offered quietly, interrupting Harry’s thoughts.

Harry meant to say no. He meant to growl “bugger off”, maybe flip the man a rude gesture for his presumption. His body had other ideas, though, and he found his head bobbing affirmatively with just a touch too much enthusiasm.

Snape produced a thin vial from one of his trouser pockets—which had to be magically enhanced, Harry thought, because there was no way it would have fit in there otherwise. He offered it out to Harry, who unstoppered and downed the whole thing in one go before passing the empty vial back to Snape.

Snape Banished the vial with a wandless spell, then seemed to hesitate. “It will be all right, Harry,” he murmured at last.

Harry doubted that those words had actually passed Snape’s lips as soon as he heard them. Comfort from Snape! And in that—that soft, reassuring tone! And for God’s sake, the man had called him _Harry_!

Getting into character, he reminded himself. A father certainly wouldn’t call his son by his last name. And Snape probably just didn’t want to deal with hysterics, so he’d mustered up enough decency to say something reassuring. That was all it was.

XXXXX

The courtroom was a claustrophobic place, one that had Harry nearly clawing at the neck of his shirt in an effort to free himself of the unbearable constriction. He wanted to rip off the stupid tie, but he knew that Snape wouldn’t approve of that in the least, and the last thing he wanted was to pick a fight with Snape in the middle of a Muggle courtroom right before his hearing.

They’d Apparated to an abandoned alley just a block away from the courthouse (though Harry had no earthly clue how Snape had brought them there, unless he’d traveled to this neighborhood at some point during the day he’d been gone). Snape had given Harry a once-over, instructed him to tuck in his shirt, then cast a glamor on himself—one that altered his features just enough to make their relationship believable, not to mention make Snape unrecognizable to any of Voldemort’s spies that might be lurking about.

Together they’d made their way to the Youth Court floor, and been shown into the proper room, where they’d been seated on the defendant’s side of the room. All this in near silence, which Harry appreciated, since he’d expected hissed threats from Snape all morning and had received none.

The Dursleys were already there, seated in the back row of the court, dressed to the nines. Dudley had slicked his hair down, Petunia had done herself up with her best makeup, and Vernon’s mustache had never looked more trimmed and proper. All three of them glared nastily at Harry upon sighting him.

Harry did his level best to ignore them.

Mrs. Applewhite was there too. Harry had seen her on the right side of the room, just three rows back. She’d caught his eye and sent him a little wave of encouragement, which he’d appreciated more than he could ever say.

Snape guided Harry to his seat, one hand on his back. Harry hated that insincere gesture. Yes, he understood the need for keeping up appearances, but it stung to think that the only person who’d ever publicly supported him like this—an actual hand on his shoulder, a presence at his side—was only fulfilling a role he’d cast for himself. It made Harry want to childishly shrug that hand off, because if there was anything worse than having no one to comfort him it was having to endure this farce.

Likely Snape was fighting the urge to retract his hand and wipe it on his trousers. Hah. At least neither of them was happy about this.

The bailiff at the front called for the room to rise. They did. Harry swore he could hear the groaning of wood as his cousin and uncle stood up. The magistrate had entered—a wrinkled, older woman with bright red lipstick, small rectangular frames, and short, curling red hair streaked with grey. Her lips protruded forward in a tight, unpromising pout as her gaze swept over the courtroom.

“You may be seated,” she instructed as she took her own place behind the bench. Her eyes dropped to the papers before her, which she picked up carefully and began to leaf through. “We are here today for the hearing of Mr. Harry James Potter, who stands accused of burglary of valuables equaling less than one thousand pounds. Mr. Potter is accompanied by his father Severus Potter, who has reclaimed custody of Mr. Potter from his relatives Mr. and Mrs. Vernon Dursley.”

Harry heard his aunt’s disbelieving snort from where he was sitting. “That’s a filthy lie—”

“Mrs. Dursley.” The judge’s sharp gaze immediately snapped to Petunia. “You wish to dispute that information?”

Harry twisted back in time to see his aunt stand, clutching her purse before her, her whole face twisted in a hateful sneer. “The boy’s father is dead,” she hissed. “I don’t know what lies they’ve been feeding you, but the boy’s an orphan that we were good enough to take in. And now they’re dragging in riffraff from God only knows where to tell lies about my dead sister and her equally dead husband—”

“Mrs. Dursley,” the judge cut Petunia off harshly, “this court has thoroughly reviewed all pertinent evidence in the case, including the boy’s birth records and Mr. Potter’s identifying forms. If you lack such basic confidence in this court, I invite you to step out so that we might proceed apace.”

Harry couldn’t help but feel a vindictive little twinge of satisfaction at that rebuke. Even if his aunt was telling the truth in this situation, and the judge was only telling her off because of a clever bit of magic on the part of the Ministry of Magic—or, more likely, Dumbledore’s meddling.

Petunia looked stunned and embarrassed—not a good look on her pale, bony face, though Harry definitely enjoyed seeing it there.

Petunia dropped back into her chair then, her lips pressing shut and her hands folding tightly over her chest, so that she could glare silently at the judge.

“Excellent,” the judge drawled out, returning her attention to the documents before her. “Mr. Harry Potter will be permitted to address the bench with a brief opening statement before we proceed to reviewing the evidence, including that contained in the police report and hearing from the witnesses who have kindly joined us today. Mr. Potter will then be allowed to make a closing statement before judgment is rendered. Misters Potter, you both are permitted to address the bench, though I remind you to keep your statements brief.”

Panic was beginning to worm its way back into Harry’s veins despite the Calming Draught. He turned frantically to Snape and whispered, voice practically hoarse, “Shouldn’t I have arranged for a solicitor or something?”

“No need,” Snape replied in a murmur. “It would be superfluous at this stage. Would you like to speak, or should I?”

Ha. Easy question, that. As if he wanted Snape waxing poetic about Harry Potter’s personal character, even if Snape was ostensibly here to support him. So he stood and spoke up, trying to find his footing as he went along. “Er, Your—ah—Honor”—Harry was gratified to get a small affirmative nod from the judge—“I would just like to say that I never broke into Mrs. Applewhite’s home and I never stole anything from her. I was accused by my cousin and some neighborhood kids, and that was all the evidence they had against me. I… I hope that the evidence will show that today. And I hope that the real people—culprits—are caught, because Mrs. Applewhite deserves some justice after what she’s suffered.” Harry dropped back into his seat and turned his gaze to his lap, feeling too self-conscious to look anywhere else.

Harry felt that fatherly hand return to his shoulder briefly. He wished it weren’t so necessary for the lie, so he could bat it away and tell Snape never to touch him again. He didn’t know what was worse, that Snape would probably gladly comply or that the casual touch actually made him long for something he’d never have.

Maybe Mr. Weasley would have done this for him. That he could have stood, probably, as long as the man wasn’t like his wife, assuming things before he ever got any proper facts.

“Thank you, young Mr. Potter.” The judge wasn’t warm when she spoke, but Harry thought that her tone was maybe just a fraction kinder.

Maybe, Harry thought, because she’d actually reviewed the facts of the case before arriving that day, and had already come to what had to have been a fairly evident conclusion.

And as the proceedings dragged on, Harry began to believe more and more that that had to be the case. And it was nice, Harry thought to himself more than once, to have an adult on your side, making sure that people couldn’t think the worst of you just because they were too stupid to see what was right in front of their eyes.

XXXXX

The proceedings went much better than Harry had expected, perhaps because of the unexpected vociferous testimony of Mrs. Applewhite herself. When the woman was invited to give testimony from the bench, her determined stride nearly gave Snape’s a run for his money. Then she proceeded to make no secret of glaring balefully at the arresting officer, who was attending the day’s hearing to bear witness as to what had occurred.

Afterwards, Harry wondered if the judge had started with her first because she knew that it would take serious audacity to tell the woman who’d been victimized that she’d been mistaken in her version of events.

“Mrs. Applewhite,” the Judge began briskly, “can you please give an account as to what occurred Saturday the twentieth of June, at approximately two forty-seven in the afternoon, at your residence?”

“I most certainly can,” the plucky older woman declared, shifting her glare to the Dursley family. “My sister’d just borrowed the car that morning. Her husband had dropped her off to get it, seeing as she planned to go out of town to visit an old girlfriend a few counties over and they only had one car themselves. I thought I’d lend them mine, you understand. Well, those awful boys—the Dursley one, and, oh, what’s his name, Bupkiss—those two were hanging about on the street, up to no good as usual. I ignored them best I could.

“When I came in from pruning the roses, I heard some noise at the front door, and this girlish giggling—”

At that Harry heard Dudley start to make a noise of protest.

“I don’t sound like a _girl_ ,” the boy grumbled, then grunted as Vernon elbowed the boy in the side. But Dudley, of course, was too thick to take the broad hint. “What? I don’t, okay? She’s just—”

“ _Mr_. Dursley,” the judge hissed from the front, her thin brow knitted together into a single furious line. Her words carried across the courtroom with all the force of a gunshot, leaving stunned and uneasy silence in their wake.

Harry had to hide a smile behind his hand as he pretended to rub at a spot just above his lip.

“If you cannot be quiet, you will be asked to leave.”

Petunia, to Harry’s delight, looked utterly mortified, her mouth slightly agape.

“Okay, but tell her to stop lying about things, because I _don’t_ sound like a girl when I laugh. She just didn’t hear me good ‘cause—uh. Well, she just wouldn’t know—”

“Mr. Dursley,” the judge bit out, “I can and will have you and your entire family removed from this courtroom. Your abhorrent behavior will not be tolerated. You will accord my person and these proceedings all the respect that they are due. Is that clear?”

Dudley paled a bit at that and stared down at his lap, wringing his pudgy hands together slightly. “Yes, ma’am,” he mumbled, shockingly enough.

Well, Dudley did have manners, Harry reflected. He just had to be bribed quite thoroughly to use them most of the time.

“Mrs. Applewhite?” the judge prompted smoothly, her voice returning to its previous placidity.

“Hmph,” the older woman snorted. “I’d know well enough what those two boys sound like when they’re up to no good, I tell you. Cackling like hyenas, they were, about throwing a party in my house while I was away.

“Well, I don’t lock the front when I’m home, of course, but here those two come sauntering in, cool as you please, as if they owned the place. And then the big one, Dursley, there, says that the place stinks ‘like old lady’, and decides he doesn’t want to have a party there after all. But, he says, _there might be something worth hocking_.” Here Mrs. Applewhite did an admirable job of dropping her voice low and dulling the syllables enough as to convey her clear opinion of Dudley’s intelligence. “And then I hear the two little bastards ransacking my house, crowing over how much they’ll make pawning my heirloom jewelry. Filthy animals had their grubby paws all over my mother’s brooch! The very brooch she smuggled out of occupied Germany, and I won’t tell you how!”

The judge lightly cleared her throat. “Mrs. Applewhite, we understand that you are upset. If you could stick to the facts, though….”

The older woman hmphed unhappily to herself, sending another withering glare in Dudley’s general direction. “Well. Suffice to say, then, that I recognized that hooligan’s voice, clear as day, and that if I hadn’t recognized that, I certainly wouldn’t have mistaken little Harry’s footsteps for those of his lumbering tub of a cousin! I swear, the boy shook the house with every step he took—”

“She’s calling me fat,” Dudley whined, though not as loudly as his last interjection. This one, surprisingly, sounded as though it was intended for his parents only. “She can’t do that, can she Mummy? It’s slander—”

“Mr. Dursley!” the judge growled, and this time she punctuated the admonishment with a sharp rap of her gavel. “You will keep your mouth shut until you are called on! One more word, one more single utterance, and I will see to it that you’re facing misconduct charges as well! This is your final warning. Is that understood?”

Harry watched from the corner of his eye as his cousin nodded into his lap, looking, Harry thought, surprisingly young and scared. Well, this would be the first time _he’d_ ever been to a hearing. Harry remembered how intimidating he’d found the first one, though he hadn’t had anyone there for him, not really. Vernon, glaring daggers at him the whole time, but that didn’t count. And Harry had been chewed out for something he hadn’t even done.

Still. Dudley was awful, but in a lot of ways that stemmed mostly from his gross immaturity. Really, Petunia and Vernon hadn’t given the boy many opportunities to grow up, so what could Harry expect?

“Mrs. Applewhite, did you ever see either Piers Polkiss or Dudley Dursley on your property at any time?” the judge continued after a last warning glare at Dudley.

“Yes,” Mrs. Applewhite declared. “I was afraid they might beat a little old woman like me for sport, so I kept well hidden mostly, but when I heard them finally leave I crept out and saw them running up the front walk, laughing the whole time, until they saw a patrol car go by.”

“Did you witness what occurred then?” the judge pressed.

“Well,” Mrs. Applewhite huffed, “I wasn’t stupid enough to poke my head out just then, but I did see those two panic a bit at the sight of the bobby’s car. Then the bigger one said something and pointed off to the east, and the skinny one nodded, and then they started waving down the bobby’s car and chasing off down the street after him.”

“Did you call the police then, Mrs. Applewhite?”

“I damned well did. Told me it’d be a while before they could send anyone out my way, the idiots. I told them they had someone out on the street right then, and they told me he was off patrolling down off New Street, to the south of Magnolia Crescent, this time of day. I told him I saw with my own two eyes one of theirs pass down this way, and to tell him to come back to my house because I wasn’t setting foot outside with those two lurking about. A couple of regular thugs, I tell you, and in a quiet neighborhood like ours. Makes me sick, it does.”

The judge’s lips, Harry noticed, seemed to thin further, the wrinkles on her face growing deeper as well. “Thank you, madam. You may step down.”

Mrs. Applewhite gathered up her handbag slowly and deliberately, her poise and deliberate slowness reminding Harry of a cat with its back up for some reason. The woman spared him another sympathetic smile before returning to her seat.

That, unfortunately, was the last of the supportive testimony for a good while.

XXXXX

Harry had decided he was never going to show his face again. He didn’t need to look over at Snape to know the man’s face was set back in its usual sneer. How could it not be after hearing what he’d heard? The arresting officer (Lubberwort, whose name had, for some reason, caused Snape to snort aloud) had gone on at length about how troublesome Harry was, how he’d always been something of a miscreant, how he was known in the area for tormenting small animals (Harry supposed this was an extrapolation from the incident with the cat). The officer detailed how sullen and defiant Harry had been upon arrest, and how this was typical, consistent with his vast experience with ne’er-do-wells.

The judge, whom Harry had assumed up until then was on his side (especially given Dudley’s revealing outbursts) had only asked a few quiet, terse questions to clarify that the officer had not witnessed the even in question and had merely acted upon the word of a few other teenaged boys. Then she’d dismissed him.

Then came Dudley, Piers Polkiss, and, of course, Harry’s loving aunt and uncle, all of whom painted Harry as a vicious, ungrateful twit who could not find any constructive uses for his abundant free time, and so had resorted to causing mischief and generally being a menace to society. His aunt and uncle went on at length about their efforts to reform “the poor misguided boy”, but alas, it seemed there was something in his very blood that could not be eradicated. Then, too, the judge had listened almost silently, lips still pursed in a McGonagall-esque disapproving expression, only asking the occasional question for further clarification. Vernon and Petunia even went so far as to carefully disparage Mrs. Applewhite, implying several times that she was getting on in her years, her senses were starting to go, and she _was_ such an optimist, God bless her heart, always thinking the best of people, even when they clearly didn’t deserve such consideration. She must have been confused. Diddykins couldn’t have possibly done such a thing. He’d never been in trouble before, and Piers too, such a well-mannered and polite boy.

Harry expected that was it then. Even Dumbledore’s interventions likely couldn’t gloss over an official Muggle court proceeding like this. He’d be lucky if he only got community service this time, though even that would likely be several months’ worth. Enough to interfere with his year at Hogwarts. Sure, he’d be called up to give his side of things, but what could he really say in the end? Old Mrs. Applewhite wasn’t mistaken? His family, who’d raised him for better than thirteen years, _was_ mistaken? That he really was a good boy, honest? Sure, the judge would take this delinquent at his word.

He wished then that he could sink into the floor and disappear. That Harry Potter could just dissolve and it would be as if he’d never existed. Because he was sick of this, sick of things going from bad to worse. Sick of getting people killed, or nearly. Sick of endangering everyone he’d come to love just by being him, sick of being hated for something he wasn’t, for things he couldn’t even control. Sick of feeling like the only people he could rely on were his friends—friends who hadn’t written to him much, friends who were in over their heads too. Friends who probably wouldn’t have signed on to be friends if they’d known what it would really be like to be Harry Potter’s sole companions.

Harry felt something cool and smooth brush against his knuckles just as Petunia, the last of witnesses against him, was leaving the stand.

A glance to the left told him it was Snape nudging a glass of water toward him. When the man caught Harry’s eye, he gave a significant tilt of his head toward the drink.

Right. Snape was likely still drugging him in a bid to keep him from throwing a tantrum or something and embarrassing his “father”. Harry immediately averted his eyes, though he did take a big gulp of the stuff.

When he settled the glass back down on the table, though, Snape did something truly bizarre. He laid a hand on Harry’s forearm and squeezed firmly for a few seconds before letting go. A gesture that was too small, too subtle to be for show, one that twisted at Harry in a way he didn’t want to think about too much.

Why the hell had Snape done that? To make him feel better? Because… well, it was stupid. But the feel of that, combined with the Calming Draught that had been passed to him, it didn’t feel at all as though he was merely being managed. Yes, he’d felt the familiar soothing wash of the potion throughout his body, but the way Snape had passed it to him had had an effect all on its own. Like the man cared about him and how he was doing.

But that thought made Harry uncomfortable, so he shoved it aside.

“Before we conclude,” the judge began, her shrewd gaze sweeping over the courtroom, “by hearing from young Mr. Potter himself, I would like to read a few excerpts from letters submitted on his behalf by professors at his private boarding school. I believe several present parties will benefit from this information.”

Letters submitted on his behalf? Harry’s head snapped up at those words, his mind reeling. What could they possibly say? Why would any of his professors sent anything? It wasn’t like his record was spotless. They’d probably just end up making things worse by alluding to his “adventures” and calling them well-intentioned, or something along those lines. It wasn’t as if McGonagall approved of his escapades; far from it, in fact. She’d always been certain to deduct large numbers of points and assign him detentions whenever she caught him with so much as a toe out of line. And Harry didn’t think any of the other professors knew him well enough to write anything, really.

Well, Dumbledore, maybe, but who knew what nonsense the Headmaster might have churned out, or how he’d go about trying to exonerate Harry.

No, Harry decided, letters were not good. They rarely ever were.

“From one of the boy’s mentors at the school, one M. McGonagall.”

Harry buried his head. He didn’t want to hear this.

“Sit up straight, Harry.”

Oh, good. Now _all_ the blood was rushing to his face. Snape had spoken the words quietly enough, of course, and his tone was—shockingly—not one of rebuke, but all the same. Harry felt about two inches tall then.

But he did as he was told, forcefully folding his hands tightly in his lap. He did not look at the Potions Master.

The judge had fished out her reading glasses by then, and was staring down at an unfolded piece of paper. She began to read: “ ‘Harry is a model student, both in the classroom and while playing sports. He is unfailingly kind to all of his classmates, and even goes so far as to intercede on their behalf when they are being bullied.” The judge’s accusatory glance flickered up to Dudley and Piers for half an instant.

“ ‘In my dealings with him, I have found him to be honest and forthright, even when confronted with disciplinary action, rare though those occasions have been.’” The judge carefully folded that letter and set it aside.

Harry breathed a small sigh of relief. Of course, he reasoned, they wouldn’t want to sabotage him in this. Of course they would stretch and twist things for him to avoid a complicated situation with the Muggle justice system, especially with Voldemort back now.

“This one,” she continued, withdrawing another letter from a stack of papers before her, “was submitted by the headmaster himself. ‘Harry is a bright, inquisitive boy who has made many contributions to this institution since arriving. I must note that he received in just his second year an award for special services rendered to the school, an honor that has only been bestowed seventeen times since the school’s founding some centuries ago. I do not now, nor could I ever believe, that this young man has committed the crime of which he has been accused.’”

 _Now you don’t_ , Harry thought bitterly. _Now that Snape’s poured Veritaserum down my throat to prove it._ One nice letter that glossed over the nightmarish events of his second year and turned it into a positive didn’t do a whit to undo the sting of that betrayal. The old wizard hadn’t even bothered to check in on him! No, had just sent Snape off to collect him like some meddlesome stray dog who’d caused trouble with the neighbors.

“I feel that the situation is clear enough for me to make a ruling. However, I would still like to hear from young Mr. Potter, should he like to speak again before I announce my decision.” And with that the judge was peering expectantly down at Harry.

And Harry did not know what to say, what he possibly could say. He hoped the judge had meant that she believed his teachers over his relatives and an officer of the law, but nothing seemed to be making much sense lately, so he wasn’t about to put much stock in this interpretation of things.

He stood clumsily, knocking a knee against the underside of their table as he did so. He didn’t know what she wanted to hear, even. And the only thing he could think to do was to say as much. “I—ma’am… I mean, your honor, I don’t….”

“Perhaps you could give us your version of events?” she inquired, her tone going gentler, almost coaxing.

That, too, made Harry feel worse. As though he were so fragile that he could not handle being spoken to normally. He sighed internally and began haltingly, “I was just at the park down the road from my aunt and uncle’s house when the officer and Dudley and Piers showed up, saying I’d robbed someone. There’s not much more than that to tell.”

“You were at the park alone?” the judge prompted.

Harry almost shrugged, but decided it was best not to test the woman in any way. “Yes.”

“Why was that? What were you doing there?”

Harry sighed aloud then. “I needed out of the house. I… I just wanted some fresh air, is all.”

“Did you not feel comfortable enough at your relatives’ home, in their yard perhaps?”

Ha. There it was, then. She didn’t actually believe him. She was leaning toward Dudley’s ridiculous story. And now she was trying to find a hole in his version of events. But he wasn’t going to give her one, even if it was painful for him to tell the truth.

“No, I didn’t. Um… someone recently passed away at our school. A student. And… I was involved in the incident. Actually, it was sort of….”

Harry felt Snape’s grip tighten on his forearm again, and this time not in a supportive way. It was a warning not to continue talking about Cedric, probably because he might give too much away.

“It’s been hard,” he finished lamely, “and I hadn’t told my aunt and uncle. I just needed some space away from them to… to….”

“To process,” the judge finished for him, her voice nearly oozing with sympathy now.

Well good. At least he was pathetic enough to win her over.

“Had you told anyone where you were going?”

Harry swallowed thickly. “No. But Dudley and Piers passed by the park on their bikes before the burglary and saw me sitting there.”

“Do you have anything else to add, Mr. Potter?”

Harry shook his head into the ground. “Just that I hope Mrs. Applewhite gets her heirlooms back.”

“I do as well, Mr. Potter. You may be seated.”

When Harry did sit again, Snape’s hand settled back on his shoulder, his grip tight. Harry figured the man was trying to find a healthy outlet for the urge to strangle his “son”. That little squeeze earlier, of course that had been intended to manage him. To keep him grounded. There was no emotion behind it. It had been calculated.

And this, now, the clear tension in Snape’s grip, the way his fingers dug slightly into Harry’s flesh, that was his true feelings. Barely contained disgust. Veiled loathing. Frustration that he had to be here in this position, that his unruly charge had been so close to laying bare his soul before this Muggle judge in what he likely believed to be a transparent bid for sympathy.

The judge took her time carefully arranging the papers before her, including the letters submitted from Hogwarts, before finally raising her gaze. It landed nowhere near Harry. Instead, her rapt eyes pinned the Dursleys, her face pinched tightly in disapproval. “It seems rather apparent to me, due to the incompetence of the investigating officer, the lack of concrete evidence, and testimony given on Mr. Potter’s behalf, that this young man is innocent of any wrongdoing in this case. I would like to thank those who gave or submitted testimony today, and reassure those present that appropriate actions will be taken regarding all that has come to light today.”

And just like that it was over. Though the judge’s final promise puzzled Harry. He almost thought to ask Snape what the woman meant by what had “come to light”, but he figured it was likely just a reference to the incompetence of the local police department. He hoped that his other cases might be revisited as well so that his record might be cleared, but he doubted that things would go that far.

Oh well. Good thing that he didn’t plan on spending much time in the muggle world anyway.

At least the whole damned thing was over now.

“You did not expect to be cleared?”

Snape’s level question drew Harry out of his preoccupation. Did his slight surprise show? “I just figured that things don’t usually go my way. Seemed like a good time for something else to go wrong.”

Snape frowned, brow knitting, likely disapproving of Harry’s obvious self-pity. He looked as though he were about to say something, possibly something scathing, to verbalize that sentiment, but he was interrupted by a woman’s shrill cry, which cut easily through the din of the milling crowd.

“Harry!”

Harry winced and steeled himself for what, he was certain from a single glance at Snape, was bound to be an awkward and tense interaction.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tea for three.

Mrs. Applewhite practically elbowed her way through the courtroom to Harry’s side, her eyes filled with motherly concern. “Harry,” she greeted him. She sent a withering glare at Snape before returning her attention to him. “I’m so sorry you got dragged into this. Bobbies don’t know their heads from their arses, I swear. I’d sue them, were I you. Get a good solicitor and sue them for everything they’ve got for making such a muck-up of things. You’re all right, dearie?”

Harry blushed furiously. He could feel Snape’s curious eyes on him, but he ignored the man as thoroughly as he could. “I’m fine, Mrs. Applewhite,” he replied politely. “Thanks for testifying—”

“Pah, for telling the truth, you mean. Angeline should’ve done the same damned thing when they wrote you up for shaving her cat. Stupid woman listens to Petunia too much. You’re not going back to them, are you, my boy?”

“I, uh—”

“He’s not,” Snape clarified smoothly. “Other arrangements have been made—”

“Ah, because you’re too much of a deadbeat and a lout to take care of your own boy, is that about right?”

Harry just stared in wide-eyed shock at the older woman. She was glaring at Snape again, hands on her hips, mouth pursed in a tight frown. “Mrs. Applewhite,” he stammered, “it’s not like that—he travels for work, you see. He’s—ah—he’s a diplomat, like his father, and so he knows how hard it is to make friends when you’re always moving around. He thought he was doing what was best, see—”

“Best,” Mrs. Applewhite scoffed, her narrowed eyes never leaving Snape. “I saw how they treated you year after year. Shameful, it was. I wrote letters when you were little, you know, but nothing came of it.”

Beside him, Snape stiffened noticeably.

“I told Petunia all those years, it’s going to come back to haunt you and yours. Beastly woman, worse than her husband, I swear. And it has, hasn’t it? Look at the little monster her boy’s turned into. I can’t wait until they ship that boy off to wherever it is they send criminals like him.”

“Well, thanks again,” Harry mumbled uncertainly. “And really, I think my—my father will do much better this time. Really, it’s partly my fault. When I was old enough to write him letters, I never said anything, so it’s not as if he could have known—”

“He could have checked,” Mrs. Applewhite huffed. “You stop making excuses for him. Honestly, there should be a law—dumping your children for years on end, leaving them to grow up with _those_ people….” Mrs. Applewhite reached out and patted him on the hand. “You have my number, don’t you, dear? You just give a ring if you ever need anything. I don’t care if you’re on the Continent or across the pond, either. Should have said as much years ago, really.”

It was stupid that Mrs. Applewhite’s words should mean so much to him. But they did, and suddenly Harry found himself fighting back tears. “Thanks,” he mumbled weakly, unsure of what else to say. “Um—did you—did you get everything back? I—I’d heard they’d pawned some of the things….”

“Everything that matters, except my mother’s pearl necklace. Could be anywhere in London by now, by the way that dirty weasel broker tells it.”

“I’m really sorry,” Harry offered.

Mrs. Applewhite smiled sadly at him. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for, dear. You’re a good boy.” She touched his cheek lightly, then sighed. “I’d best get going. I promised my sister I’d visit her today, and she’s very particular about when I drop by. You call if you need anything, Harry.” She leveled one final glare at Snape. “You,” she warned, jabbing a finger at him, “make sure he’s looked after.”

Harry expected Snape to make some snide parting comment. But the man didn’t. Instead, he replied solemnly, “I will.”

Mrs. Applewhite didn’t look as though she believed him in the least.

“In fact,” Snape continued, his voice turning smooth and polite, “I wanted to extend an invitation for you to join us this afternoon for lunch. My treat. I was hoping that you might be able to advise me as to what’s occurred over the years while I was away.”

Harry’s whole body seemed to freeze then, even the thoughts in his brain grinding to a dead halt, as Snape’s words filtered to him.

“Well, I—”

And it was just then that the delayed processing finished, and Harry understood that Snape was, once again, about to stick his giant ugly nose into Harry’s private business. Probably would ruin Mrs. Applewhite’s good opinion of him too, just for the hell of it. No wonder the man had been so mild-mannered and—well—almost bearable today, having this nasty bit of work planned.

“Oh, Mrs. Applewhite’s probably too busy, father,” Harry interrupted, emphasizing the _father_ bit, hoping it would either disgust Snape or, at the very least, make him uncomfortable. “She said she had to visit her sister, and we wouldn’t want her to miss out on that.”

“I’ve a bit of time for lunch,” Mrs. Applewhite declared, meeting Snape’s gaze squarely. “I’ve more than a few things I’d like to say to you, Mr. Potter. I’ll meet you off of Elton Square. There’s a fine little tea room that will do there.” She glanced down at her wristwatch and hmphed softly to herself. “Half an hour, we’ll say. I’ve some errands to run before then.” Her gaze returned to Harry, and as it did it softened considerably. “Harry, dear, I’ll see you then.” She cast one last hard glare at the Potions Master before readjusting her handbag and heading for the door.

“Why’d you—”

“Because,” Snape cut him off, speaking from the corner of his mouth, “you have been less than forthcoming about your childhood, and as I doubt Veritaserum will be an option a second time, I will have to resort to other methods. And if you decide to be difficult about this, I will send you home early and tell the woman that you’ve taken ill. Is that clear?”

“You have no right,” Harry began angrily, “to go mucking about in my relationships—”

“I’ve no intention of doing that,” Snape replied calmly, his dark, steady gaze shifting down to fixate on Harry. “It is imperative that we have information about how badly you’ve been mistreated, and as I said, you have been less than forthcoming—”

“She doesn’t know anything!” Harry hissed. “I barely saw her growing up! I might’ve trimmed her hedges and done her lawn once or twice for a few quid, but that’s it! You just—you—”

“I just… what?”

Harry hated how the man sounded so calm, as if he were just mildly curious about whatever Harry was ranting about. “You can’t stand that someone actually likes me, that’s what! You—you want to fix her opinion, that’s all, expose her to the _real_ Harry Potter, the delinquent the Dursleys are always talking about—”

Snape’s eyebrows lifted marginally. “You believe I would waste an afternoon ruining your reputation with an elderly woman who is, as you’ve said, nothing more than an acquaintance of yours?”

Of course Snape would calmly deny his intentions, the utter bastard. And it wasn’t as if Harry’s prompting would get him to admit to anything. Or to stop interfering with every last good thing in Harry’s life. “No,” he replied sarcastically, the words acrid on his tongue. “Of course not. How stupid of me. I keep confusing you with someone who’s belittled me and loathed me for four years.”

That, at least, got a reaction out of Snape. His mouth tightened with the lines of his face, and for a brief moment he looked away. “I’ve no intention of doing anything of the sort. I merely wish to speak with the woman about her observations, nothing more. If it is any consolation, it is apparent that she neither likes nor trusts me.”

There was that. Valid point. Not that the Slytherin couldn’t manipulate a sweet old woman into thinking the worst of Harry. Hell, Petunia was as clever as a common house fly and _she’d_ managed to turn practically the whole neighborhood against Harry.

Snape, on the other hand, was frighteningly brilliant. He could probably convince Mrs. Applewhite herself that her eyes had fooled her, that Harry actually _had_ broken into her home and stolen from her.

“Wait here,” Snape commanded suddenly. “I’ve some business to attend to.” And with that Snape was off, weaving expertly through the lobby toward the two officers who’d testified.

Too curious to remain behind, Harry followed, though he took care to hang close to the edge of the room so that his eavesdropping was not so obvious.

“Ah, Mr. Potter,” his arresting officer mumbled.

Harry straightened for a moment, then realized that he was actually addressing Snape, his “father”. God, that was bound to put Snape in a foul mood, wasn’t it?

“Did you need something? I, er—you see, got some paperwork to complete, and—”

“Your resignation, I hope,” Snape drawled, his voice cold as ever. “I cannot believe they ever allowed someone so lazy and useless to carry a badge.”

The officer’s thick face reddened. “Now, see here—”

“No,” Snape cut him off icily, “ _you_ see. You’ve no idea what a mess you’ve made of things. You have meddled in a young boy’s life, branding him as a thief and treating him as a criminal when you had no cause, when any halfwit, barely-competent idiot might have taken the time to put the facts together properly. Instead, you hauled a teenager already grieving and recovering from trauma, already suffering being parted from friends and family, to a detention facility, and proceeded to inform me that he had, beyond the shadow of a doubt, violated a woman’s home and made off with her personal effects. You think a stammering admission, under pressure from the magistrate, that you ‘might have’ handled things better is enough to make amends for the damage that you’ve done?”

Harry bristled at the way that Snape had described him—traumatized? Grieving? God, he was laying it on thick, wasn’t he? Maybe Snape should say that he cried all night when he first got home, too, and make the bloke really feel bad. As long as he was painting Harry as some needy little snot anyway….

“Now you listen,” the man repeated, stammering a bit more. “That boy and his parents—your relatives, mind—told me that it was your boy who’d gone robbed that woman. That bigger boy and his friends claimed to have seen it, too, so take it up with them—”

“And did you ask my son what _his_ version of events was, hm?”

Harry barely restrained himself from snorting derisively. Snape hadn’t either, had he? No, he’d refused to so much as hear Harry out. Only the Veritaserum had changed his mind.

“Well—”

“Gathering all the evidence—now, correct me if I am wrong, but that _is_ your job, is it not? Yet it seems you were more than content to cut corners, hang the consequences. I cannot imagine the fine taxpayers of this country would be happy to hear that they are footing the bill for such incredibly shoddy work. Why, the newspapers would have a field day….”

The man’s face paled suddenly, and he staggered a step back. “Are you—are you threatening me?”

“Certainly not,” Snape replied smoothly, his words all the more chill-inducing for their lack of overt threat. “I am simply indicating to you your choices. Either tender your quiet resignation and seek out other employment—preferably, where you will not have the opportunity to ruin the lives of innocent children—or I can get the press involved. Believe me when I say they will be clamoring over each other to report on this. ‘Upstanding Teenager Falsely Imprisoned’…. Hmm, I wonder if they might work something in about how he was already devastated, grieving the unexpected death of a classmate, recovering from a traumatic affair involving a homicidal madman….”

It struck Harry then how very odd it was to hear those words from Snape. It hadn’t been that long ago that he’d been trying to convince the warden that Snape was going to turn him over to that very same homicidal maniac. At least he knew better now.

“I—you’ve no right to make such demands—”

Snape stepped very close to the man and said something that Harry didn’t catch, something that made the man blanch. Just as quickly, Snape stepped back, straightened his vest slightly, and with one final glare turned on heel and strode away.

His eyes caught on Harry, and he gestured briefly with a hand to indicate that Harry should join him.

Harry scowled to himself. Now he was being summoned like some trained dog. Great.

Still, he knew better than to make a scene with Snape, so he hurried forward, stopping just a few feet before the man.

“I believe we’re finished here,” he announced. “Would you like to come along to lunch, or would you prefer I return you to the house?”

Harry drew a deep, calming breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth. He made certain to feel his chest expanding and his shoulders rising. Then he replied, “I’ll go along, s—father.”

Snape nodded slightly, as if he’d expected the answer. “Come along then. I believe we’ll need to hail a cab.”

A cab. What was Snape thinking? Why not just Apparate? And how the hell did Snape know anything about cabs?

But Harry figured that, at this point, it was best to just keep his head down and continue to play his sickeningly contrite role. Just until the end of summer, he reminded himself. And Snape couldn’t make him out to be an ungovernable brat if he didn’t act the part. So Harry resolved to be the perfectly-mannered son while in the public eye.

Snape led him out of the courtroom and down the front steps, casting occasional glances to his side as though to verify that Harry was following. Probably expects me to bolt, Harry thought bitterly.

Harry followed Snape down the street, keeping what he deemed an appropriate distance, and watched, utterly flabbergasted, as the man expertly hailed a cab. And then continued to stare as Snape opened the door and gestured for Harry to get in ahead of him.

_Paranoid blighter_ , Harry thought uncharitably, fighting the urge to shake his head. Still playing the role of ‘doting father’ on the off chance that there were observers. Harry crawled into the cab, trying to tighten his slipping grip on his temper.

Snape slid in beside him, far too close for Harry’s comfort. And unlike with apparition, this lack of personal space would persist for the duration of the ride. Harry pressed himself to the window, trying to resign himself to his fate.

“Where to?”

“Tea shop off of Elton Square,” Snape replied curtly. He glanced over at Harry briefly. “Seatbelt,” he commanded quietly as he reached for his own.

Grudgingly, Harry buckled himself in.

“I am not going to interrogate the woman, you know,” Snape told Harry, his head turned away to face the window. The cabbie peeled out from the curb back into the flow of traffic as Snape spoke. “I only plan to get a general picture of things.”

Harry couldn’t help but snort derisively at that. “If you want that, just ask my aunt and uncle. I’m sure they’ll tell you all about me—”

“Oh, I shall,” Snape snarled, his words low and thrumming with a vicious energy that sent unpleasant thrills through Harry’s veins.

Just what in the hell did that mean?  
  


“Look, I didn’t mean you should actually—”

“Your relatives have much to answer for, Potter,” Snape cut him off tightly. Still he did not look at Harry, only continued to stare out the window. “And I will see to it that they _do_ answer, I assure you.”  
  


“No,” Harry hissed, his chest going tight, “you will _not_. Why do you have to stick your nose in things you have no earthly business meddling in? I mean, what the bloody hell—”

Now Snape did turn, and his eyes were as cold and piercing as ever. “You are my ward,” he stated baldly, the words coming out with an acidic edge. “Your previous guardians and their treatment of you _are_ my affairs, regardless of what you would like to believe. I will handle the matter as I see fit. And now this discussion is closed.”

“You—”

“ _Closed_ , Potter. Not another word on the matter.”

“I’m not going to just sit by while you muck about—for God’s sake, you don’t have any right—”

“Potter,” Snape warned, tilting his chin up toward the cabbie. A glance up told Harry that the man was glancing curiously back at them using the rearview mirror.

Harry lapsed back into silent, seething resentment. He didn’t need Snape to become his champion suddenly, and he certainly didn’t need the bastard trying to exact some kind of punishment on the Dursleys. Harry would be happy to simply wash his hands of them and move on.

Snape huffed an irritated breath, and in the next instant his wand was out—far below the ridge of the back seat—and twirling in an unfamiliar pattern. Harry felt the zing of magic wash over him, and he quite suddenly knew without a doubt that the back had been warded.

“Again,” Snape resumed, his low voice thrumming with raw frustration, “I realize that this arrangement is not ideal. You are unaccustomed to reliable caretakers who might actually concern themselves with your well-being, however—“

“It doesn’t matter,” Harry cut the man off, turning his attention to the busy summer streets that were rolling by outside his window. “You’re going to do whatever you want and I have no say. I’ve gotten that. No need to explain further.”

“Mind your tone, boy,” Snape warned, the words snapping out harshly. He sent a flinty glare over toward Harry before returning his gaze to the back of the seat in front of him. “I’ve been more than tolerant today, but my forbearance has its limits.”

Harry said nothing. He’d been rude, he knew, but he was just so angry with the way the man was treating him. Likely at Dumbledore’s request, of course. But that did nothing to assuage the sense of being powerless and uncared-for.

Well. Snape could do his duty, and Harry would just continue to do what he’d always done. What he’d always been able to do, because no one else had managed.

He would look after himself. And Snape could just go hang.

XXXXX

Mrs. Applewhite was, surprisingly, already waiting for them when they reached the tea room, cup and saucer before her. She cast another one of her warm smiles at Harry before turning to Snape with a hard look.

“Well. Good to see you haven’t just slipped right off on the boy again. Suppose the NSPCC might have something to say about that, though.”

Harry was once again surprised to find that Mrs. Applewhite’s hard words seemed to roll right off Snape’s back. Not that Harry expected the man to take them to heart or anything so silly, but he had thought that the potions master might show some small sign of irritation at having to play this particular role.

Yet he seemed to accept the woman’s criticism with equanimity. “I’ve no intentions of leaving again, believe me.”

“It’s not me that you need to convince.” Mrs. Applewhite turned back to Harry, her expression softening again. “Here, dearie, come have a seat. Let’s get you settled with a nice cuppa, yes? After that mess they dragged you into I bet you’d do with a nice strong something.”

A flush of warmth bloomed in Harry’s chest. It was, he decided, because Mrs. Applewhite’s kindness could not be tied to anything he’d done as a baby, or at school, or a love for his parents. She liked him for him, plain and simple.

He sat down beside her with a small smile.

“Here,” she murmured, passing him a menu. “Have a look over that and see what you’d like.”

Snape slid into the seat beside her just as Harry’s eyes registered the numbers to the right of the listings. He had no money on him. Not even in his trunk back at Snape’s place. And he had no desire to be in the man’s debt, not even for something as small as this.

He almost snorted to himself when he realized that Snape would likely be keeping with his devoted father role and pay for the whole meal. And Harry couldn’t stand the thought of that.

“Actually, I’m not all that hungry—”

“Nevertheless, you will _try_ to eat something,” Snape cut him off swiftly, irritation once again seeping through his tone. “You scarcely had anything this morning.”

Mrs. Applewhite tutted in clear disapproval. “You’re already thin as a rail, love. I know Petunia didn’t feed you proper. But you must get some meat on those bones, yes? Now, what are we thinking, dear? Something light perhaps as not to upset your stomach. They do a lovely finger sandwich platter. Perhaps that?”

Harry felt his cheeks burning with a blush. No one had ever fussed over him like this, much less… well, Snape wasn’t really fussing, was he? No, he was just keeping up with his weird obsession with keeping Harry fed. Likely still concerned about the headmaster.

But Mrs. Applewhite, on the other hand… her eyes looked so sad, and her wrinkles more pronounced, as she cajoled Harry.

He was hungry anyway. So he nodded and offered her a timid smile.

“Excellent. And what for tea then?”

“Um….” Harry had never had much of a choice before. If he’d ever had it at the Dursleys, it was black and cheap and not very good. At school the elves took care of it, and he didn’t think he could recall having anything too fancy (well, apart from the overly-perfumed stuff Trelawney had served them for tea-leaf readings his third year).

“Green or black? The house breakfast blend isn’t bad. Perhaps that?”

Harry nodded. “Breakfast blend. Yeah. Sounds good.”

As it turned out, Mathilda Applewhite was one of those pushy older ladies who managed to be very efficient at getting their way, combining ruthless aggression with just enough charm to smooth things over. She managed to call a server over from across the room and put in an order for the both of them—the sandwich platter and some kind of salad for herself as well as a fresh pot of tea. She seemed content to pointedly ignore Snape as she fixed her own cup and chatted idly to Harry about her garden.

Harry was grateful for the reprieve from talking about anything related to his life. He knew it was only temporary, as Snape had all but promised to use this outing to pry information out of the woman, but for the moment he was happy to pretend. Pretend that his potions master wasn’t here, hanging over him. Pretend that he was—what? This woman’s grandson, maybe? That he was out with her for the day because they did this regularly?

Yes, he could pretend that he was her grandson. That she doted on him and spoiled him, and loved fussing over how thin he was getting because she was his grandmother and that was simply what grandmothers did.

Though how Vernon’s mother could ever look at Dudley and say he was nothing but skin and bones was beyond Harry.

Harry asked about the woman’s sister (his great aunt in his little fantasy) and Mrs. Applewhite happily prattled on about the ditzy old woman who lived out in Devon. She liked the country, Mrs. Applewhite said, but she liked to take strange ideas into her head and run with them. Just recently she’d decided that she wanted to raise chickens, but hadn’t bothered to do any research into the matter. Hadn’t even built a coop, so she’d ended up with a gaggle of young chickens squawking about the yard.

“Left droppings everywhere,” Mrs. Applewhite chortled. “And then the roosters—three quarters of them were male, you see—the roosters took to crowing in rounds every morning. Drove poor Edna batty, they did. I think she finally sold them off to a local butcher. And good riddance, she told me.”

Snape, who’d been sitting quietly until then, content to listen to the conversation, finally spoke up. “Mrs. Applewhite, would it trouble you terribly to answer a few questions about my son for me? I’m afraid I’ve been terribly misinformed about him and his life, you see, and it seems that you will be one of the few reliable resources I can consult on the matter.”

Mrs. Applewhite’s expression soured visibly as she turned her stony gaze to Snape. “I’d wager you’d be a touch less ‘terribly misinformed’ had you bothered to ever drop in on your only child.”

Snape did a fair job at affecting a wince. Harry barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes at the blatant overacting. “Yes,” Snape agreed quietly. “I doubt I can ever make up for all I’ve put the boy through. However, I would like to try, and I feel that the first thing I can do is understand precisely what fate I left him to.”

Mrs. Applewhite hmphed to herself. “I suspect asking ‘the boy’ himself might do wonders there.”

Harry stiffened, half-afraid that Snape would do so, right here, right now, just to appease the woman, or perhaps to prove that Harry was petulant and overly sensitive after all.

Snape sighed. “Harry is understandably reluctant to confide in me.” The potions master shot him a pointed glance.

What did that even mean? That Harry had better keep quiet now? Or that Snape wished Harry was _less_ reluctant?

“Understandably reluctant indeed,” Mrs. Applewhite echoed emphatically, casting a sympathetic look toward Harry. “But I suppose it would be better for you to know.”

And that, Harry thought, sounded to him like an apology. Sorry (but not terribly so), but I’m about to tell him everything. Harry hunched down a bit, wrapping his arms as subtly as he could manage around himself, all semblance of appetite suddenly gone.

And then, in a heavy voice, and one too hushed for eavesdroppers to catch, Mrs. Applewhite proceeded to tell Snape everything. And Harry dared not contradict any of it. He couldn’t have; Mrs. Applewhite spoke bluntly and truthfully.

Snape, for his part, listened intently, his focus never straying, nodding gravely, occasionally asking a quiet question about this or that incident. His gaze flickered to Harry’s every once in a while, as did Mrs. Applewhite’s, but neither sought to address him or draw him into the conversation. Which was just as well; Harry was certain that both could tell that he wanted nothing more than to leave.

But this, it seemed, was a serious conversation between adults, and Mrs. Applewhite was not allowing her apparent dislike and distrust of Snape to get in the way of disclosing everything she’d observed over the years.

“Disgusting people,” she muttered sometime toward the end, when all their tea had been drunk and only the dregs remained in her cup. “Treated poor Harry like a slave while that useless lump of theirs lazed around, never lifting a finger. I heard Harry pushed him back once, when he was younger—Petunia nattered on about it for ages. Made it sound like he’d maimed the boy.” Mrs. Applewhite shook her head to herself. “We didn’t see Harry for days, not even out in the garden.”

The statement hung like a question, and Snape’s eyes on him left Harry little doubt as to whether he’d be answering it. He supposed he should be thankful that he had not been forced to participate more in this, that he’d been able to ignore as much of it as he had.

“She kept me inside doing chores.”  
  


Mrs. Applewhite wrinkled her nose. “I’d wager that’s not the half of it.” Then her voice turned soft and coaxing, almost pleading. “Harry, dear, what _did_ that beastly woman do with you? You can tell us. Better to say, I think, than keep it all inside so much.”

Harry did not want to have this conversation. He did not want either of them to think he was looking for pity or sympathy. He wasn’t. He just wanted to forget any of those things had ever happened. What did it even matter now? It was over. Snape had said that he wasn’t going back.

He shrugged.

Mrs. Applewhite sighed unhappily. “He was always like this as a child too. I never could get him to say much, apart from ‘I’m fine’ and ‘it’s not so bad’.” She reached over and patted Harry’s hand gently. “Maybe someday you’ll let us in, hm?”

That made Harry blush fiercely. “Really, it was just chores, nothing….”

“Harry, no one will force you to share anything, but do not insult our intelligence by lying to us.”

The rebuke from Snape, mild though it was, seemed to have an unnatural sting to it. To call what he was doing _lying_ …. As though he were being purposefully deceitful rather than omitting unpleasant details that had no bearing on anything.

  
Because he _knew_ how it would sound to them to hear that he’d been locked in his cupboard when he wasn’t doing chores, and that his meals had been restricted. Snape would start harping about abuse again, and it didn’t _matter_ , because it was over and done, and neither of them had even been there, and it couldn’t have been so very awful because Harry had survived it and he was _fine_ now. And Snape had the gall to tell Harry not to _lie_ about it when all Harry was doing was keeping them from wasting their time and their sympathies.

Mrs. Applewhite abruptly began to gather up her purse. “I need the powder room, and then I’d best be off,” she announced, “before my sister thinks I’ve gotten lost.”

Snape nodded to her, his attention shifting back away from Harry. “Thank you again for accepting my invitation. I’m glad that we were able to discuss…matters.”

Mrs. Applewhite nodded slowly in agreement as she fished something out of her purse. “Best you hear what your asinine behavior has wrought, yes. And I’m happy to tell you more if need be—”

“There’s nothing more to say!” Harry burst in before he could stop himself. He covered his mouth quickly and averted his eyes. He expected an immediate rebuke from Snape if nothing else.

But Snape did not scold him. Still in his repentant father role, Harry supposed, when he heard the man’s response. “I know it is uncomfortable, but it is necessary.” And then, when there was no immediate reply to that, he said softly but firmly, “Harry.” And he waited until Harry had looked up at him.

Harry obeyed, knowing that there would be a sharpness in the man’s eyes belied by his even tone.

There was not. “I need the whole truth if I am to understand how to help you.”

Harry almost screamed that he didn’t need help, but Mrs. Applewhite was nodding approvingly at Snape’s words, and Harry really didn’t want to get into anything with Snape while she was still there. So he bit his tongue, dropped his eyes back to his knees, and nodded.

“Here.” Mrs. Applewhite had evidently found what she was looking for—a plain white business card with a woman’s name, number, and street address. And two dreaded words: adolescent psychologist. “My friend Jeannie’s daughter works with teenagers who’ve had a hard run of it. You might want to look her up.”

Snape accepted the proffered card with a few murmured words of gratitude. Harry hoped to God it was just for show.

Mrs. Applewhite spared Harry one final, fond look. “You don’t hesitate to call if you have the slightest bit of trouble with him, you hear? I’ll be ringing to check in on you shortly.”

  
“He doesn’t—”

Snape’s hand squeezing his shoulder tightly cut him off mid-sentence. “I have not reactivated my line since returning from out of the country, but I shall be rectifying that immediately. Please do call.”

“Oh, I will,” Mrs. Applewhite promised staunchly. “And you be sure to get in touch with Jeannie’s daughter or someone, you hear me? Your boy deserves at least that much from you, after all he’s been through.” Mrs. Applewhite reached down to pat Harry’s hand in his lap. “You take care, Harry dear.”

Harry forced himself to lift his eyes, to smile even a little bit. “I will,” he promised softly, his voice cracking. “You too.”

“Pah, Don’t have to worry about an old woman like me. I can hold my own.”

Harry believed her. Even Snape seemed to cede to her, recognizing there a stubbornness and sense of determination that even his deadliest of tones could not frighten out of her.

Harry was sorry to see her go. Because now he was alone with Snape again. And as soon as they left this restaurant, as soon as they were away from prying eyes, Harry’s reprieve would be over. Snape would no longer have any reason to restrain himself.

And now he was armed with all sorts of dirt from Mrs. Applewhite, with gory details about Harry’s miserable life in Little Whinging. Harry could only imagine all the things the man might say now.

Snape left a folded wad of bank notes beneath the check, which had been dropped off at the table some time ago. He glanced over at Harry, his brow arched in a question. “Shall we?”

Harry rose without a word. No sense in delaying, he thought, much as he might like to.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Snape yell. Harry takes a nap.

They would Apparate back to Spinner’s end. Snape led Harry to a disused alley down a quiet street.

Harry managed to gather up the courage to address Snape before the man grabbed him for the journey. “Sir,” he began hesitantly, “about… listen, I don’t have any spare cash on me, but if we could just stop by Gringotts for a moment—”

A hesitant glance up at Snape allowed Harry to catch the barest glimpse of the man’s expression softening. Not much, and not for long before any hint of emotion was wiped away behind a blank mask, but it was enough. More pity.

“It won’t be possible today,” Snape cut him off quietly, his words firm and even. “Such a trip would require more preparation than we have made for the trial, likely Polyjuice or some similar measure. It will simply have to wait for another day.”

Harry nodded. He didn’t like being in Snape’s debt for any amount of time (though by his reckoning it was less than ten quid, so nothing terribly much, but still). Part of him was grateful that Snape was actually being gracious about this, even if this whole lunch had been sprung on Harry.

As if he’d read Harry’s mind, Snape murmured, “I know you would prefer to take care of matters as quickly as possible. I regret that today is not possible, but we should be able to make arrangements in the near future, especially seeing as you will be needing to purchase school supplies shortly.”

Harry nearly scoffed at the thought of Snape taking him shopping in Diagon Alley. Oh, that would be a delightful trip. His one wizarding outing for the summer ruined by having to spend it with Snape.

“What is it?” Snape demanded, an irritated edge reemerging in his voice.

“Nothing—”

“You look as if I’ve kicked your favorite puppy. Out with it.”

Harry sighed and carefully turned away from Snape. The man was bloody irritating. “I usually get my things with Ron and Hermione. Sir,” he added hastily, realizing belatedly how petulant and spoilt he sounded. Wanting to give the man no excuse to chew him out, he continued, “It’s not a big deal, of course. I just look forward to spending time with them, is all—”

Another furtive glance at Snape found the man looking at him with a decidedly odd expression, his head cocked just slightly to the side. “You will be free to spend the day with them as always. I would think it would be better, even, for you to have necessities purchased and stowed away, so that you might spend more time perusing the… recreational shops.” Those last words positively dripped with disdain, and Harry had little doubt which establishments Snape meant. Zonko’s, the Quidditch stores.

But that promise puzzled Harry. “But I won’t have to go at all if I already have my things together.”

Snape just stared at him blankly. “Clearly you wish to go, however.”

Harry shrugged, as if to say it didn’t matter. It didn’t, he reminded himself. Ron and Hermione had barely written after all. They seemed to be on the outs anyway. And he’d see them plenty at school.

Apparently exasperated, Snape rolled his eyes and seized Harry roughly by the upper arm. “I am not going to forbid you from going with them for sheer spite, Potter. When the time comes we will make arrangements. Now hold on tightly.”

Harry didn’t know why Snape was promising something he didn’t have to, especially an outing that Harry knew very well might have some risks. Nor did he know where he was supposed to “hold on” to. But he supposed that the man’s shirt would have to do, since he didn’t seem about to release Harry’s arm.

And then they’d Apparated directly back into Snape’s parlor. Snape’s grip remained firm for a few moments as Harry found his feet after the disorienting sensation, then dropped away.

“I take tea at five,” Snape said suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere. “In the sitting room.” He’d folded his arms back over his chest, his expression dour once more.

“Um… okay.” Harry wasn’t entirely sure how to interpret that non-sequitur. Well, likely he was being assigned a chore. He’d always made the tea for his aunt in the afternoons that he was home. Sometimes for all the neighbors too, when Petunia felt like showing off her charity case. It was actually a ritual Harry enjoyed, and he thought that he would be glad for the break from the monotony today. After all, re-reading his old textbooks was quickly losing appeal, and he knew better than to ask if he could leave the claustrophobic little house.

“At the moment, I’ve some brewing to see to, and then a few errands to run. I trust you can see to yourself while I’m out?”

Harry nodded, his thoughts already beginning to stray. He supposed he could pick up the yard. He’d never minded being outside and doing small projects like that, and it would be nice to keep his hands busy. That, and he had a feeling that he would need some way to keep from being overwhelmed by memories of everything that had occurred that morning.

Particularly… oh God. Snape knew _everything_ —well, not everything, but significantly more than he’d previously learned. He knew _details_ now, because Mrs. Applewhite had wanted to help. Because the woman had not understood that Snape was a sadist with his own agenda.

Snape cleared his throat lightly, startling Harry out of his spiraling thoughts. “You are still upset that I spoke with your neighbor.”

Harry closed his eyes, willing his flaring temper to subside. “There was no reason for you to ask about—”

“There was, regardless of whether you wish to acknowledge it or not. Now, I will be meeting with the Headmaster and other members—”

“Members? Of what?” Harry cut in. The Board of Governors? Had they been thinking about expelling Harry? It wouldn’t surprise him. Snape likely would have pushed for it back when he believed Harry really had committed a felony.

Snape heaved a sigh. “All will be revealed soon. And believe me when I say that I find not explaining everything to you immediately to be as asinine a plan as you likely find it. Suffice to say that your well-being is of concern to a number of people, and as involved parties—”

“No, there are no _involved parties_. I’m sick of people mucking around in my life like it’s any of their business—”

“You are a minor by both Wizarding and Muggle law,” Snape informed him coolly. “Your previous guardians have been found to be unfit, and we are in the process of determining what might be done for permanent guardianship—”

“Not the Weasleys,” Harry all but growled, retreating a few steps toward the corner of the room. He knew how sullen he must look, but he didn’t really care. “And I’m almost seventeen anyway. Can’t I just get—what’s it called? Emaciated?”

Snape rolled his eyes to the heavens. “ _Emancipated_.” The _idiot_ was, at least, left unspoken. “The Ministry is not likely to support it given the events of this past summer, and should they find out that you are in a vulnerable position before arrangements can be made, it is likely you will be taken into Ministry custody. I trust I do not have to explain to you why that is not a desirable outcome.”

Harry shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks and directed his gaze to the pattern of the worn wooden floor. “So what, a bunch of you have secret council meetings about my life and what should be done with me?”

A glance up told Harry that Snape’s expression had soured considerably. “We discuss far more than you, Potter, but since you are unfortunately at the heart of matters more often than not—”

“It’s not like I ever asked to be put there, you know,” Harry cut in heatedly. “I never wanted to be _the_ Harry Potter. And if he hadn’t come after me I probably wouldn’t be—”

“Enough.” It sounded as though Snape’s patience had finally snapped. “I am not going to sit here and listen to you bemoan the fact that you have a group of adults concerned about your welfare—”

“Oh, yeah, real concerned,” Harry drawled out, his own temper boiling over in kind. He raised his head to glare at Snape. “They’ve been checking in on me all this time, haven’t they? Harry gets fed through a cat flap—well, that’s no big deal! Harry’s not allowed his textbooks during the summer because they’re for freaks? Oh, he can just cram everything in on the train, or at the Burrow if we let him go! Harry doesn’t need clothes of his own, Harry doesn’t need to eat every single day. But the moment there’s the possibility that the _public_ will be involved because I got sent into the system, well, that’s too much, can’t have word getting out about that. I’m glad that no one’s consulting me on anything too! It’s not like I have thoughts or feelings of my own!”

Harry could see that Snape’s jaw was clenched tightly, and the man’s hands had balled into tight, angry fists at his side. “You do not know everything, and you _will not_ know everything until it has been deemed appropriate to tell you—and for good reason, though you are clearly incapable of appreciating that there might be more complex factors—”

“Bullshit.” Harry liked the way that coarse word rolled off his tongue, cutting through the air. “That’s a fucking load of bullshit and you know it. You just don’t want to involve me because I might be difficult, or not agree with all of you intelligent, caring adults about _my own goddamn life_. But fine, make your plans. It’s not like I can stop you.”

Snape seemed to force himself to draw a deep breath. To Harry, it still looked as though he was containing his temper by a thread only. “I will be meeting with the Headmaster and other concerned parties, such as your _godfather._ ” Snape gave him a pointed look.

“I don’t want him involved,” Harry muttered, retreating another step back. He just wanted to run up to his room and slam the door, maybe lock it if he could (as a symbolic gesture of course, since no muggle bolt was going to keep a competent adult wizard out). “He doesn’t even know me.”

“Under different circumstances he would be your guardian.” Harry could tell it cost the man something to be able to grind out a sentence about Sirius that was so bereft of insults and derogatory commentary.

“Well, that doesn’t mean he’d be a good one, does it? He’s reckless and impulsive and he doesn’t even know what I’m like, except that I play Quidditch and I look like my dad. He’s got no business making any decisions for me.” _And you hate him, so why wouldn’t you want him to be denied guardianship_? Harry added mentally.

“Lupin, then—”

Harry scoffed. “Couldn’t be bothered to send me a letter, until he decided I needed to be chewed out. Same with the Weasleys. Yeah, they’re nice, sure, but they don’t know _me_. And they don’t have any business sticking their nose into things. I guess Professor Dumbledore had custody of me when I was a baby or something, because he was the one who took me to the Dursleys. So I suppose there’s nothing to be done about that, though it was a pretty fucking awful decision if you ask me—”

“He thought he was doing what was best for you,” Snape cut him off stiffly, the words hissed through gritted teeth. “We all did. You needed the protective magics more than you could possibly imagine, being responsible for the downfall of the Dark Lord as you were. You believe it was so easy, I take it, that there were so very many options when we suddenly found ourselves with an orphaned infant with a host of Death Eaters hell-bent on murdering him. I suppose you believe the Headmaster did not exhaust his options? That he dumped you on their stoop without a second thought?”

“Fine, he did the best he could! And he will again, I’m sure! And I just have to bloody deal with it, because life’s not fair, and it’s my fault for not saying anything sooner anyway, isn’t it?”

That thread of self-control snapped. Snape’s voice turned deadly cold. “No one said anything of the sort. Your lack of perspective is appalling, though not surprising in the least. Everything is about you, isn’t it, Potter? These people you expect to give you their undivided attention could not possibly have been struggling with other things. Lycanthropy. Seven other children and financial stress. _Dementors_. How dare they not drop everything in their lives to cater to you?”

Harry opened his mouth to retort, but there was no sound, no air there to form words. He felt as though he were a balloon, and Snape’s words had been a knife that had sliced clean through him, leaving him to float for a moment longer on that mass of anger before sinking straight down and crashing against the ground.

Because damn it, the man was right. As angry as Harry was, as much as he _wanted_ to be angry, he knew that what Snape had said was true. Mrs. Weasley, Sirius, Lupin… they all had demons they were facing down. Hell, Harry had caused the Weasleys enough stress in his second year alone. It was a miracle Mr. Weasley had only been fined and not fired completely for the flying car incident. Mrs. Weasley _knew_ Harry had done stupid things before. And Lupin had tried to be understanding. And Sirius… Harry was still angry with Sirius, but the man had lived with Dementors for twelve long years. Could Harry really blame him for being a pessimist and assuming his godson had gotten into some legal trouble?

Harry was ashamed then. Ashamed because he _did_ have people who cared about him, people who’d wanted to support him, even if that was by lecturing him about his behavior. And he’d all but spat on that and called it nothing. He felt sick to the pit of his stomach.

He didn’t know what to say, how he could answer. He just wanted to hide then and be alone with his self-loathing.

“What, nothing to say for yourself?” Snape taunted, a familiar snide edge reemerging in his voice.

Harry swallowed thickly, then forced out a rasped, “No, sir.” He had to swallow again past his tight throat before he could get out the rest of his words. “You’re right. I…. May I be excused?” The words were automatic, ingrained in him after years spent in the Dursleys’ company, the only way he might get to escape to his cupboard as a child without being shoved in there by Vernon or Petunia.

“Potter,” Snape began, but then he hesitated. The awkward silence stretched for a moment, so thick that Harry felt as though he could scarcely breathe. He hoped the man wouldn’t tear into him again. God, he hated when Snape was right about things.

But Snape didn’t. The silence just continued to hang there, heavy and unbearable.

“Please, sir,” Harry whispered at last.

“Go.” The command was surprisingly faint from Snape, brittle rather than sharp.

Harry needed no further command than that. He fled. And he could hear Snape cursing behind him. Probably fed up with Harry again.

Harry shoved the door closed behind him when he reached the bedroom and sank face-first into the bed, wishing with all his heart that the twisting feeling in the pit of his stomach would go away.

Snape was an utter bastard, he reminded himself. The man hated Harry. He was unfair and blind and far from perfect himself. In fact, considering how nasty he’d been over the years, Harry decided he had no place in speaking at all. Who was he to criticize Harry? To judge Harry’s pain and frustration?

But damn it, the man was right. Harry had been acting like a petulant child, and maybe he had some entitlement to do so after everything that had gone on, but even so, he liked to think that he was better than that. Better than hating people just because they’d misjudged him, likely because of information they’d received from the highly trusted Albus Dumbledore. And all of them had enough to be dealing with outside of Harry. None of them had asked to be even remotely responsible for him.

That didn’t mean, of course, that their accusations in those letters stung any less. It just meant that Harry had been stupid to expect so much of them. He’d never spent much regular time with any of them, after all. A few weeks at the Burrow, a few letters from Sirius, a year of classes with Remus… none of it amounted to very much, really.

And at this rate, he wouldn’t get much time in with whoever was to be his new guardian either, since he was obviously to be stuck with Snape for the rest of the summer.

Harry banged his head a few times into his pillow. He hated himself for this anger—anger that seemed to spring up out of nowhere sometimes, anger that swept him up and carried him into hating people who’d been nothing but good to him. And he hated Voldemort for robbing him of so much.

But mostly he hated the Universe itself for seemingly conspiring to screw him over time and time again.

XXXXX

Snape left shortly after Harry retreated to his room. In the small, creaking house, he was able to hear the definitive roar of the Floo. Harry didn’t even care where the man was going; he was just glad to be alone.

He could not shake the twin feelings that threatened to swamp him—anger, and shame. The two seemed to chase each other around in the pit of his stomach, round and round, cresting occasionally, and when they did there was nothing to do but pull his knees a little more tightly against his chest and wait for the feeling to ebb again.

It would start with sheer indignation—after all, didn’t he deserve some damned support? Hadn’t he muddled through enough in his life without anyone really at his side? Was it so much to ask for _some_ consideration in this whole guardianship process? Was he doomed to be alone for the rest of his miserable life?

And that—the thought of loneliness—was usually what gave way to the shame. After all, why was he so special? Plenty had it worse. Here he was, a wizard, a Seeker, a young man with a vault full of gold, enough that he suspected he would be set for a good amount of time after Hogwarts, someone with friends and a godfather, someone who regularly met with one of the greatest wizards of their time, and he was unhappy because his summers were awful. He was complaining because not every detail of his life was to his liking. And it was then that Snape’s words would come back to haunt him, ringing in his mind, clanging against his skull. _Everything is about you, isn’t it?_

He would burrow his head deep into his pillow then, and wish away his miserable existence. Everything _was_ about him, just not in any way that mattered. Harry Potter—everything was always about Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the child hero, the baby who vanquished the Dark Lord. There was never any time for Just Harry, though. And then it was back to the indignation.

It was an exhausting cycle, one that left Harry drained and aching. Finally he just slid into a defeated slumber, having no energy left to cope with the thoughts that were consuming him.

XXXXX

Harry awoke sharply with a mild headache to a sharp knock on his door. When he blinked his eyes open, he found that the light had shifted significantly. Late afternoon had passed into the dull glow of early evening. He must have slept for several hours—and his dry mouth and growling stomach attested to that.

“Potter?”

Harry sighed to himself. Snape had returned, joy of joys. He groped for his glasses, which he’d settled on the nightstand, as he managed to rasp out, “Coming.”

The door cracked open. Snape did not look angry at least, and his typical sneer was conspicuously absent.

Harry prayed that whatever the man had to say would be short.

“You were able to rest?” he inquired evenly, the question surprisingly polite.

Harry pushed himself up from the bed, wishing that his clothes weren’t so rumpled now. He felt stupid, staring Snape down now in his mussed dress clothes. “Yeah—yes, sir.”

Snape nodded once, looking almost—approving? “I imagine you did not sleep well last night.”

Harry grit his teeth so that he would not snap back at that comment. What the hell did it matter to Snape? He’d done his bit today, hadn’t he? It wasn’t like he’d been a half-awake idiot bumbling around during the hearing.

“Meet me downstairs. We’ve a few things to discuss.”

Harry bit back a sigh and nodded—not that it mattered, as Snape had already turned in a flourish of dark robes, redonned, Harry imagined, for whatever important meeting he’d rushed off to. He ran a hand through his mussed hair, wishing more than ever that he could just go back to sleep and lose the rest of the day that way.

Instead, he unbuttoned his dress shirt and slipped out of his tie, trying not to focus on the memories both items brought back—the kindnesses that he didn’t understand. He dumped both items in his trunk, and slipped out of his trousers as well, swapping the black dress slacks for jeans and pulling on one of Dudley’s nicer jumpers, a navy blue one that only had a small bleach stain at the bottom of it.

He didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want to think about what “things” Snape would want to talk over. Likely just a rehash of their earlier conversation—that there were things that Harry couldn’t be told, that Harry had no say in where he spent his life outside of Hogwarts, that Harry was an ungrateful twit with no concept of how fortunate he really was. And then likely he’d be made to eat, even though he’d rather just burrow back under the covers and wallow some more in his own misery.

But he didn’t want to provoke Snape. He’d learned long ago that antagonizing the adults in charge of his life only bred problems. So he forced himself to make the trudge downstairs.

Snape was waiting for him in the sitting room, perched on the edge of his winged armchair, one leg crossed over his knee. He was staring into the fire in the grate, absently tapping what appeared to be a sheaf of parchment against his thigh. When Harry reached the bottom of the stairs, the man at last glanced up at him, his expression still that unreadable blank mask.

“Sit.” He gestured to the sofa, positioned before the fire and to the left of his own place.

Harry did, fighting all the while to wrestle his resentment back under control.

Snape’s eyes returned to the fire, and he resumed the maddening tapping of his parchment bundle. “You did very well today, especially considering the trying circumstances you faced.”

The words were nonsense to Harry at first. His brain, he felt, didn’t have the context to process them, and it took a few seconds of owlish blinking for him to finally unravel the statement as a compliment. And a few more seconds of staring dumbly at Snape, waiting for the sneer or a sarcastic rejoinder to follow, something that would turn that compliment into something he could understand.

But the sarcasm never came, and Snape never did turn to face Harry after delivering those words.

Harry managed to choke out, “Thanks.”

Which elicited a curt nod from Snape as an acknowledgment. Then the Potions Master continued in a brisk tone, “I spoke to the Headmaster this evening about your concerns regarding your custody arrangements, and he agrees that your input should at the very least be considered, if not adhered to. You are temporarily in his custody, and mine by proxy, but more permanent arrangements will have to be hammered out by the end of the summer. Your options are, unfortunately, limited, but Professor Dumbledore has offered to assist you with any inquiries you should like to make in that realm.”

Harry found himself staring again, all semblance of speech utterly escaping him. “You—what?”

Harry saw Snape’s free hand clench the armrest of his chair more tightly. “Do I need to repeat myself?” he demanded testily.

“No, I just—why did you…? I mean, I thought you didn’t think I should have any say—”

“Again, you twist my words in your mind and turn them into something ludicrous,” Snape growled, this time his eyes shifting over to sear Harry with an irritated glare. He stood up abruptly and paced over to one of the bookshelves, his hands locking behind his back in a formal, professorial posture, one Harry had seen many times when the man was lecturing. “I may have expressed irritation at your petulance and your inability to recognize that there might be a _need_ for keeping you out of these meetings, but I have never advocated treating you as a child incapable of making decisions. In fact, I believe I very clearly stated that I _disagree_ with the way you have been treated by the Headmaster, though I recognize that it is not my decision to disregard his strictures.”

Harry could feel the beginnings of a headache coming on. Snape disagreed with Dumbledore? He was siding with Harry on this? But the man still sounded irritated—prickly, angry even, which was certainly not a good thing. It was time to attempt to smooth things over.

“Of course, sir.” There, kowtowed and deferential—nothing to raise Snape’s ire any further. “I’m sorry I misunderstood—”

“Don’t.”

Harry flinched involuntarily as Snape whipped around suddenly, eyes narrowed, mouth set in a harsh line.

“Do _not”—_ he jabbed a finger in the air toward Harry—“try to _soothe_ me as if I were your oaf of an uncle. You do not need to _manage_ me.”

Harry’s mind went blank with panic. He’d made things worse, damn it! Of course, because Snape was many unpleasant things, but he was also brilliant, and would see right through Harry’s efforts to placate him and—how in the hell had he known about Vernon anyway?

“How—”

“How do I know about how carefully you had to tread around that waste of flesh?” Snape finished for him, his voice utterly cold. “I paid your relatives a visit this evening.” Snape grimaced, then turned back to his bookshelf, his hands locking back behind his back.

Harry wanted to be angry. He wanted to roar out his fury; he wanted the room to flare with magic as it had on that awful night not too long ago. As it was, though, the thought of Snape knowing so much, more than just what Mrs. Applewhite had told him, made Harry go weak at the knees. It was a good thing he was already sitting down.

“You talked to them?” Harry asked faintly.

Snape snorted. “I wouldn’t waste my breath on the likes of them. I was interested in the details of your lived experience under their care, not their lies and denials.”

Harry was afraid to ask, but he had to. He had to know. “What, then? What did you do?”

“I Legilimized them.” And then, before Harry could demand an explanation of that unfamiliar term, Snape clarified, “I read their minds.”

The full implication of that statement hovered over Harry, just beyond his grasp. But he knew when it hit him it would hit hard. He needed to leave. He needed to be alone. “Was—was there anything else you needed, sir?” he forced out.

Snape did not answer immediately. He continued to study the bookcase for some time, before finally turning and striding over to Harry. He dropped the bundle of parchment in Harry’s lap and explained shortly, “Letters for you. I ask that you reply to them at your earliest convenience, so that I am not accosted by the Weasley brood, your godfather, and Lupin the next time I attend a gathering.” And with that he paced away again, his gait stiff and agitated.

Harry automatically clutched the stack of letters, tied together, he now saw, with a bit of twine. He could not determine how to feel about this—further correspondence. A small part of him wanted to just pitch them into the fire and be done with them.

“I left your dinner on the table in the kitchen. And as your book list for the coming year has been finalized, we will be going to take care of your purchases tomorrow in Diagon Alley, and likely a bit of clothes shopping in London. We will leave directly after breakfast, so be certain that you are ready.”

Harry fingered his letters nervously. “Sir, I still have to get money from Gringotts, and if we have to use Polyjuice—”

“We will not be stopping at Gringotts. Other arrangements have been made.”

Harry clutched the letters tighter. “But sir—”

“You will be able to purchase everything you need without withdrawing anything,” Snape clarified. “The Headmaster and I have made other arrangements. Besides, it is common for witches and wizards to make purchases and authorize later withdrawals from their Gringotts account.”

Harry bit back his complaints. After all, he could always settle his debt to Snape some other time. It was only a few pounds, after all. He would just note it down.

Yes, note it down and try not to think too much about everything that Snape must have seen. Had he incapacitated the Dursleys first? Was it illegal for a wizard to read the minds of Muggles? How much of Harry begging and pleading with Vernon had he seen? And Dudley—had the man read his cousin’s mind too? Had he seen all those humiliating childhood incidents? Dudley sitting on him, Dudley beating him to a pulp, Dudley getting Harry into trouble with Petunia….

“May I go?” Harry mumbled. He could feel how hard his hand was crushing his letters, crinkling them so that the sharp edges of the rumpled parchment dug into the tender flesh of his palm.

“There are a few more matters.”

Harry just barely suppressed his frustrated moan. He needed to be away. He needed… he didn’t know. But whatever it was, it was not lingering here.

“On the table there.” Snape did not turn to indicate what he meant, and at first Harry did not see because the object in question nearly blended into the dark wood of the coffee table.

But then Harry saw it. A familiar length of holly, nondescript to anyone outside of the wizarding world. It made Harry’s heart leap straight into his throat, though, and before he could stop himself he was snatching up the wooden rod and reveling in the gentle warmth he felt infuse his hand as his fingers and palm made contact with the handle.

“You will use it for nothing stronger than simple spells and charms, and you will not _misuse_ it, or I will confiscate it and it will remain in my safekeeping for the remainder of the summer.”

Harry was tempted to cast a quick spell then and there—a lumos, at the least. But he knew better. And Snape knew better, too, which was why the man’s words made no sense whatsoever. “Sir, I’m underaged—”

“And the Trace will signal spellcasting in areas bereft of other magical activity. As this location is thoroughly warded against any such signals, the Ministry will not be alerted, so long as you do not cast any powerful spells. Therefore, you are allowed, as I said, to cast minor spells so long as you are within the bounds of the property, and so long as you can use your magic responsibly.”

Harry instinctively clutched his wand to his chest. Snape was toying with him, wasn’t he? Hoping to get him expelled? “It’s illegal, sir,” Harry stated in quiet, firm tone.

Snape at last turned back to face him, his special brand of sneer finally reemerging. “Yes, because I’m certain none of your little friends have ever cast so much as a spell outside the hallowed halls of Hogwarts. Remind me how many of them have been expelled?”

Harry glared back at Snape. “The Ministry hates me right now! Why the hell would I take a chance? Is this—is this some kind of test? I know better than to do any magic, unless it’s a life or death situation! Okay?”

Snape sighed and, closing his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. “The Ministry will not find out, but believe what you will.”

“Can I go now?”

Snape nodded into his hand. “Go. Eat dinner. And reply to your letters!”

Harry scowled and shuffled back from the man, his temple pulsing suddenly at the high-handed command. What business of it was Snape’s whether he answered any of these messages or not? He was through with most of the people who would bother writing him. He wasn’t about to waste his time scribbling out half-hearted replies to them. And besides, how the hell was he to send his replies out anyway?

“I don’t even have Hedwig here,” he muttered to himself, keenly aware of how petulant he sounded.

“Your owl will be arriving shortly. It was instructed that she be sent from the Weasley home this evening. Leave your window open.”

Harry’s heart leapt into his throat at the thought of Hedwig here. To have one friend in this house… he might make it through the summer yet. He almost dashed straight back up the stairs, but Snape’s hard voice stopped him.

“Dinner, Potter!”

Harry swallowed thickly and revised his course, heading instead for the kitchen. Still, his heart felt a little lighter knowing that Hedwig was on her way. Perhaps part of it too was the familiar warm wood of his wand handle against his palm. The letters… the letters were less promising. But Harry decided he would deal with them later.

Dinner first. And then he would deal with everything he had just learned, and work on untangling the complex knot that was Snape.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Obligatroy Shopping Episode

“He’s a bloody lunatic.” Harry stroked a hand over Hedwig’s head, smiling a little to himself as the snowy owl closed her eyes, seemingly relishing the touch. “He doesn’t even want me here, but he’s making me stay. And he went and… and basically assaulted the Dursleys, can you believe that? Read their bloody minds….”

Hedwig just continued to lean into his careful finger, shuffling a bit on the ledge of the window to reposition herself.

Harry sighed and withdrew his hand so that he could reposition himself. He’d been sitting on the floor for some time now, long enough that his body had cramped up from the hard wood. Probably for a few hours now, he figured, since he’d been waiting for Hedwig to arrive since he’d wolfed down the food Snape had left for him and climbed the stairs.

“He told me I could do magic too. Bloody madman, playing mind games probably.” Harry crawled back up onto his bed, fingering the wand in his pocket as he did so.

Hedwig hooted softly in reply. Harry chose to imagine it was in agreement.

“Practically poisoned me with truth serum, too, and does he feel bad about that? Not one bit. Doesn’t say a word about it the next day either, as if it’s normal to use illegal potions on your ward. And then he has to go an interrogate our neighbor… bastard. And he’s not telling me things too, did I tell you that? None of them are. Not that that’s any different than usual.”

Harry glanced at the stack of letters he’d dropped carelessly onto the worn wooden desk in the room. For just a moment he’d been tempted to read them—even just the ones from Ron and Hermione, which he’d found near the top of the pile.

But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. His mind wandered straight back to the Third Task and Cedric, and the horrified expressions on everyone’s faces when they realized that he’d returned with a body and tall tales of Voldemort in a graveyard. And if they blamed him, or didn’t believe him….

Harry tore his gaze away from Hermione’s neatly-addressed envelope. None of it mattered. He didn’t need them. Look at how Ron had turned his back on Harry just the year before! He wouldn’t go through that again. He was sick of relying on people only to have them flake out or turn on him viciously.

Still, the loneliness clawed at him. Hedwig was all well and good, but she was no substitute for a human friend. Maybe….

Harry gave in and snatched up Hermione’s letter, his heart thudding harder and harder in his chest with each passing second. If she was as bad as the others, he could just stop reading, that simple.

Carefully, he slipped a finger beneath the edge of the envelope and broke the seal before sliding the letter out.

 _Harry,_ it read,

_Please answer our letters. We are worried for you. I know we haven’t been able to tell you much, but we couldn’t. We’ve been told that it’s too dangerous to say certain things in these messages because there is no telling who might be able to read them._

_I know where you’re staying. No one would tell us at first, but finally Mr. Weasley let it slip. I don’t think he meant to. Harry, I know it must be awful for you. I hope that you’ve been treated well and that things have not been as bad as they have been previously. I hope you won’t have to stay much longer. Ron has been pressuring his parents into talking to Dumbledore about taking you in, and I’ve already written to my parents as well to see if we could host you. We don’t have a very grand house or anything but it would certainly be better than your current situation. I’m sure Mr. and Mrs. Weasley would be happy to have you at the Burrow too._

_I’ve just gotten our supply list for the year. It seems like our O.W.L. year will be exhausting. I’ve already started a list of supplemental reading. I wrote it on the back for you just in case. I hope we can all go to Diagon Alley together to get our things._

_I hope you’ve been talking to someone about what happened this summer. I worry very much about you, and you’ve hardly said anything in the two replies you’ve sent (though Ron reminded me that you had to send Hedwig to the Burrow because of your uncle, so I suppose that’s understandable). You need someone to help you process all you’ve been through._

_I hope you answer soon. Please take care of yourself._

_With love,_

_Hermione_.

Harry clutched the missive to his chest desperately, fighting the sudden tightness in his throat. He hadn’t expected that. But why not? Hermione loved him, he knew. It was stupid to think that she’d hate him, or believe the lies the Ministry was spreading about him. She’d stood by him for years through thick and thin, always doing what she thought was best for him no matter what the cost.

A small smile twisted his lips when he thought of his Firebolt, which she’d reported to McGonagall in their third year. And then the smile twisted into a grimace when he remembered how poorly he and Ron had treated her after she’d done that, when clearly she’d only been thinking of Harry nearly being bucked from his broom during his first year.

And now she was concerned for him. She knew he was with Snape, though she’d been afraid to say as much in writing, given her concerns about how he was being treated.

With trembling hands, Harry set her letter aside and found the second letter he’d decided to read, the one from Ron.

 _Harry,_ it began.

_I am SO sorry. I tried to tell Mum but she wouldn’t listen. I know you didn’t do anything like they said you did, and Hermione too, and we tried to tell them that it was your nasty cousin, and I even tried to get dad to remember the time we picked you up before the Quidditch Cup (though that didn’t help because it only made him think of Fred and George and what they did to your cousin). And honestly I think that’s what Mum’s thinking of too. She’s used to yelling at them and she’s upset and scared for you, so please don’t take anything she sends you to heart. She keeps talking about the letter she wrote you, and I keep trying to tell her that she doesn’t even know the whole story, and she just comes back with “Ronald Weasley you stay OUT of this”. So guess what I’m trying to say is: sorry, mate._

Harry couldn’t stop the grin from curling over his lips. Scratched in next to those bolstering words in the margin was an addendum from Ron: “Hermione read this over and says I’m being redundant, so ignore the last line (though I tried to tell her it was a letter not an essay)”.

Harry continued with the body of the letter.

_I hope what Hermione thinks about where you’re at isn’t true. She’s clever and all, cleverest witch at Hogwarts, but I can’t believe they’d dump you with that grease stain. I know Dumbledore was upset but I can’t believe he’d just leave you with you-know-who (not You-Know-Who, of course, but you probably know who I’m talking about, the one who would likely get off on expelling us). Hermione keeps reminding me not to give names “just in case”, so sorry for all the round-about talk here._

_Anyway, if you_ are _there, I hope the git’s not at his git-iest (though I bet he is), and that you’re making his life just as miserable. Maybe they’ll get you out of there soon, hopefully before Hermione drives me ‘round the bend with all her talk of O.W.L.s._

_Please write soon. Hermione’s really worried. And me too._

_Ron_

Harry took a deep breath and very gently placed Ron’s letter with Hermione’s. He tried to tell himself he wasn’t crying. That he hadn’t believed any of the stupid thoughts running through his head about the two of them hating him now. Of course they didn’t. How much had the three of them been through together?

He tried to tell himself that he was just tired. That he definitely wasn’t exhausted from anxiety, or light-headed now with relief.

Harry cast a glance over at his other letters, briefly contemplating reading them just to see what would be said. Had anyone bothered to let them know that he’d officially been cleared in a Muggle court? That Snape had interrogated him with illegal truth serum and cleared him privately as well?

Ha. Probably not. He tried to imagine a brooding Snape inviting Sirius and Lupin for tea.

_I just wanted to inform you that Mr. Potter was framed, and that you have treated him very badly. You might wish to write to him to apologize._

Unlikely. He was more likely to dance a can-can with Voldemort at their next Death Eater meeting. Most likely he’d tried to keep to himself, doing whatever they did at those secretive meetings, perhaps discussing Harry’s plight with the Headmaster so that he could figure out when the Boy Who Lived to Plague Him would be out of his house. Likely then he’d been “accosted”, as Snape had put it, by Mrs. Weasley, Lupin, and Sirius with letters demanding that Harry give some kind of response to indicate he’d learned his lesson. And Snape had probably taken them with a sneer and a command to stop pestering him.

Harry shoved his three unopened letters into the top drawer of the desk, and stashed the ones from Ron and Hermione away in the space behind the molding where he’d initially hidden the first batch of letters. Then he set to fishing out quill, ink, and parchment from his trunk, so that he could write at least two replies.

Since he was writing to Ron, Harry thought, he might as well send the Marauder’s Map back with Hedwig, just so Snape wouldn’t get any bright ideas should Harry overstep some line.

And then a thought hit him like a Bludger from behind. _His album_. His pulse began to thrum, his heart thudding harder, as his thoughts shifted to that most precious possession. It was still locked up in the shed, possibly moldering away or destroyed by pests….

He had to get it. He had to send it to Ron as soon as possible. And he couldn’t let Snape know.

 _Oh, simple_ , he laughed to himself bitterly. _Sneak your way around the mind-reading spy who already believes you’re constantly up to no good, who’s watching you like a hawk. What could be easier?_

If only he had a certain cloak. But no, that was more than likely stored by Snape for “safekeeping”.

Harry threw himself onto his bed, fighting the strong urge to give in to despair even as another thought hit him.

He’d never made tea at five. He’d slept through it.

Great. Another black mark on his record in Snape’s eyes. Though at least the man had had the decency not to mention anything. Merlin, the least onerous of all the chores he could possibly be assigned and he’d managed to neglect it.

Tomorrow, he told himself. He wouldn’t forget tomorrow. And tonight he would figure out some means of retrieving his album from the shed without letting Snape know of its existence.

XXXXX

Snape was still up. What in the hell was the man doing still awake past midnight?

Harry had stayed up himself, barely daring to breathe as he pressed into the hallway, the hard length of his wand still secured in his waistband. He’d stepped slowly, carefully down the stairs, feeling out each floorboard before placing his foot.

He’d paused halfway down when he’d been able to peer into the sitting room, and found the potions professor there, ensconced in an armchair with a book propped open on his knee.

Harry’s breath caught when the man’s eyes flickered up to him.

“Did you need something?”

Harry swallowed thickly, even as his mind blanked. “No,” he answered, too quickly.

Snape quirked a disbelieving brow at him. “Very well.” He paused for a moment, then added, just the slightest bit snidely, “You do not need to sneak about, Potter. You have not been confined to your room.”

Harry could not help but flush at those words. “Right.”

“You had enough to eat for supper?” Snape asked suddenly, the question sharp.

“Yeah,” he snapped. Obsessive prat. As if Harry couldn’t be trusted to feed himself properly. He’d proven his point to Snape; he certainly wasn’t going to continue to deprive himself now.

Snape continued to stare him down, that single brow arched still in challenge. “Oh?”

“I did! Want to feed me truth serum again to make sure I’m not lying?”

Snape’s lips thinned at Harry’s reply, but at least it was enough to get him to turn his attention back to his book. “You’re welcome to anything in the house, should you ever desire it.”

Harry mentally shoved those words aside. They meant nothing, he reminded himself. Snape was just still worried about Dumbledore thinking Harry was too scrawny. That was it.

“I assume there _is_ a reason for you to be up at this hour?” Snape continued, not bothering to lift his eyes from the page now.

A lie, Harry thought, and quick. One that wouldn’t have Snape too suspicious. “Thought I heard something.”

One quick, derisive glance from the professor told Harry all he’d needed to know. He wasn’t believed. “Well, whatever you are doing, finish it up quickly. It’s late enough as it is. We are leaving early tomorrow, and I’d rather not deal with an irritable, sleep-deprived teen.”

Harry forced his temper back, reminding himself that snapping in response to Snape’s jibes had never gone favorably for him. “Yes, sir,” he ground out instead. And with that he retreated up the stairs, but not before hearing Snape’s heavy, exasperated sigh.

Harry threw himself back into his blankets, his blood still boiling. Right, he thought to himself, because _he’d_ been the irritable one. Snape, of course, was always pleasant as a bed of roses, clearly.

How many days were left in the summer? Harry started to count, but he lost track quickly as his over-tired, over-extended mind succumbed to sleep.

XXXXX

Harry was up the next morning before Snape even had a chance to rap on his door. He forced himself out of bed before the sun rose and shuffled into the bathroom to attend to his morning needs, then combed his hair and washed his face for good measure, before heading downstairs to grab his own breakfast.

He was hungry, after all, and he doubted Snape would leave him be if he decided for whatever reason to skip it. He settled for some bread and jam with a glass of milk to wash it all down.

It was just as he was cleaning up his plate in the sink that Snape finally turned up. Harry heard the groan of one of the old wooden floorboards, and swung around to see what was going on.

Harry nearly let his plate clatter into the metal sink when he saw Snape. The man had, for the first time in Harry’s memory, opted for clothing that was not black. Instead he’d pulled on a dark grey jumper and dark slacks—nothing too wildly different from his usual somber tones. But the fact that he’d opted for casual garb was no small thing, and the effect was transformative. Instantly the man seemed… more vulnerable. Human.

Snape wasted no time commenting on Harry’s wide eyes. Instead, his own shrewd gaze fell immediately to the sink. “Did you wish for something more substantive? Eggs, bacon?”

“No, sir—”

“Are you certain?” Now that critical gaze swept to him. “I realize that you are… uncomfortable here. But I meant what I said last night: you are welcome to whatever you wish. If you have preferences, let me know so that I can accommodate them the next time I’m out purchasing groceries.”

Harry tried to swallow past his suddenly parched throat. He turned his attention back to washing his already-clean plate, desperate for any distraction from the man. “I’m not too particular, sir. Just about anything will do.” There. Now Snape wouldn’t think he had to do Harry any favors in this.

“Hm.” Snape did not sound disbelieving, just, strangely enough, dissatisfied. “I would still imagine that you have preferences, though, as I said. Things you enjoy eating.”

Harry heaved a deep breath and transferred his plate to the wire drying rack beside the sink. “I said I’d do three meals a day and I haven’t gone back on my word. You don’t need to act like you’re going to have to coax me to the table.”

“That is not why I am asking.”

Harry clenched his fists to himself and closed his eyes. He counted to three. And when he felt he had a reign on his temper again, he demanded, “Why, then? You’re—you won’t drop this.”

“No. I won’t. You are not used to having your wishes taken into account, but that will not be true here, especially not for inconsequential things such as groceries.” Snape moved forward, his dark eyes watchful, until he was just feet away from Harry at the kitchen counter. He then occupied himself with pulling out a French press and a bag of ground coffee, and set to preparing that. “Likewise, I imagine you have some preferences when it comes to your toiletries. Last time I was out I merely grabbed a few standard things for you, but if there is anything you would like specifically—”

“Toiletries?” Harry cut him off, his voice faint with shock. Snape—what? Had bought him shampoo and such? When had that been?

“Personal care products,” Snape clarified impatiently.

“I know what the word means!” Harry bit out. How stupid did his professor believe him to be? “I just mean that you never told me—”

“I left them on the counter in your bathroom.” Snape deftly measured an amount of coffee out with a plastic tablespoon and dumped it into the press, then moved over to the sink to fill it with water. “I did not think I could make it more obvious.”

 _Your bathroom_ , the man had said. First he’d come downstairs in a jumper, and now he was referring to _Harry’s bathroom_. What was the world coming to?

“I thought those were yours—”

“I have my own bathroom adjoining my room.” Snape set the press on the counter and withdrew his wand to tap it against the glass. “What have you been using to wash then? Surely you haven’t been going without. I would have doubtless noticed the lapse in personal hygiene.”

Harry blushed fiercely at that comment. It wasn’t an insult, per se, but it was also none of Snape’s goddamn business. It was on the tip of his tongue to snipe back at the man, something about having definitely noticed the complete absence of hygiene in the potions master, but he managed to restrain himself.

After all, they were going out in public together in a short while. It was best to keep their relations as amicable as possible.

“Well. You know to make free use of those things now. Go look through them to see if we’ll need to pick anything else up while we’re out today. And make a list of casual clothing you’ll need as well. We’ll see to your robes in Diagon, and grab the rest from Muggle London.”

“I’m sure it’s all fine,” Harry mumbled, feeling his blush deepen. This was… weird. Beyond weird. He figured that Snape would more or less drag him to a few essential stores before rushing him home. This thoroughness… it was discomfiting. Like he was actually invested in doing this properly.

Probably because he felt so sorry for Harry, having never had proper guardians to take him. Which Harry didn’t care about in the least.

“Go check,” Snape insisted, drawing out a mug for himself. “You’ll need a list for clothes shopping regardless.”

“I know what I need,” Harry countered.

“Recite it for me, then.” Snape moved then to the bread box, everything about his carriage relaxed and unconcerned. Harry hated how at ease the man was, such a sharp contrast to the way he was feeling.

Constantly out of place and off-kilter. Snape could at least have the courtesy to be a little put-out by the fact that his most hated student had taken up residence in his summer home. Or the dump he’d decided to renovate for the summer. Whatever this place was.

“I don’t need to… it’s not any of your business what I’m going to buy for myself!”

“You are under my care. Therefore, provisioning you for the schoolyear falls within my purview.”

“I’ll have clothes. That should be more than enough for you—”

“Very well, I will make a list for you.” Snape drew his wand and with a wave he’d summoned a pen and a spiral notebook from one of the kitchen drawers. Both hovered in the air, as if poised to take notes. Harry grimaced in distaste, reminded of Rita Skeeter’s Quick-Quotes Quill. “I will assume that we will discard everything you have accumulated from your relatives over the years. So, starting fresh, we will need two dozen pairs of socks, a half a dozen undershirts, a dozen… hm, no, better to say a dozen and a half… boxers or briefs, Potter?”

Harry had had enough by then. Angrily he snatched the list and pen from the air, fighting to keep his temper in check. Snape liked humiliating him, he reminded himself. The more he reacted, the more he would be playing into Snape’s hands.

“I’ll make the damned list, then.”

“As you wish.” Snape glanced over his shoulder back at Harry. “Do you drink coffee?”

Harry just glared for a moment at the man, who gazed steadily at him, one hand resting on the bag of bread he’d pulled out. When Snape’s questioning expression did not waver, Harry finally decided it was best to just answer.

“Never tried it.”

“You’re welcome to a cup, should you wish.” And with that Snape turned back to his breakfast, withdrawing his wand to make his toast.

Instead, Harry retreated upstairs, his head still spinning.

Once safely inside his room ( _Snape’s guest room_ , he reminded himself fiercely), he at last allowed himself to contemplate what had just gone on downstairs. This was more than neutrality. This was… well, downright kindness, if he was being honest.

Well, apart from that little power trip with his shopping list. But even then, Snape had seemed to derive no sadistic pleasure from interrogating Harry about something as embarrassing as his pants. Rather, his inventorying had seemed perfunctory at best, brusque and business-like. As if he’d truly only been making a list for their outing and not tormenting Harry.

Snape was committed to fulfilling his duty now. That was all Harry could make out. Obnoxiously committed, even. That explained why he’d pried so much into Harry’s home life, and why he was being so thorough now, seeing that Harry was fed and clothed and all. Whatever his other faults, and however much of a bastard he was, the potions master would see to his basic needs, at least.

And stupid as it was, he was actually a little relieved about what Snape had said about helping himself to food. He’d known as much, especially after all the times Snape had harped on him about eating properly. Still, it was nice after having lived with the Dursleys, who’d begrudged him every crumb, to know that he wouldn’t get himself into trouble for making a sandwich in the afternoon. It was honestly more than he’d expected from Snape.

But the man had said more, too. That Harry could request foods. That his _preferences_ would be taken into account. Harry didn’t know how much he believed that, if he was honest with himself. But then, part of him argued, Snape wouldn’t have said it if he didn’t mean it. The man was many things, but he was not inconsistent.

Harry wished for a moment that Hedwig was here still, rather than off delivering his replies to Hermione and Ron. Already he felt bereft of her familiar presence.

His eyes strayed to the desk, where the three unopened letters still sat. Snape hadn’t said anything about them, either, even though he’d been so adamant just the last night about Harry replying to them.

He frowned to himself. He would see to them later, he decided. This afternoon, maybe. He didn’t want to, but he knew that Snape would be after him again. And he really didn’t want to argue with the man. If anything, he wanted to continue to make himself as scarce as possible to minimize their interactions, especially now that he knew for certain that he was stuck with the professor for the foreseeable future.

With a final sigh, Harry thrust open his trunk and set to deciding what he could salvage from it.

XXXXX

Diagon Alley was just as breathtaking as Harry had always remembered it to be. That hadn’t changed one bit, despite the fact that he was now being escorted around by a Polyjuiced Snape, with Harry himself heavily glamored so that he would not be recognized.

Snape was parading around as someone Harry did not recognize at all, a random Muggle if the Potions Master was to be believed. A slightly shorter, sturdier man, older than Snape himself by at least a decade, with a grim countenance and unkempt sandy-blond hair. Snape had opted for a tailored, long-tailed woolen coat rather than his usual flowing teaching robes, which, along with the man’s perpetually dour expression, made him look like an SS officer (or so Harry secretly thought). All he was missing was the red swastika armband.

Even Snape’s foreboding presence couldn’t entirely mute the sheer euphoria that had swept over Harry the moment they’d rounded the corner from the alleyway they’d Apparated into. The whole of the wizarding street was abuzz with activity that morning, shoppers hurrying to and fro with their bizarre purchases. One man Harry spied, a stocky fellow in a shimmering emerald cloak, appeared to be carrying a very large stack of hats that swayed dramatically with every few steps, yet never seemed to fall.

Another woman just around the corner, a plump witch with flyaway straw-gold hair, was chasing after three small children, all of whom seemed to be hurling fireworks after each other, the kind that burst into multicolored showers of sparks. They were giggling and squealing as she chased after them, screaming that they were going to put each other’s eyes out.

On yet another corner was a gaily dressed wizard in patchwork robes using his wand to create elaborate bubbles for a crowd of small children. He was just finishing up two dragons as Harry’s attention turned to them. Harry watched in awe for a moment as the two transparent creatures beat their wings, flying up a few feet and circling each other warily before diving in at each other.

“Come along, Henry,” Snape muttered in his unrecognizable voice. “We’ve no time to dawdle.”

Harry managed to tear his gaze away from the spectacle. “Yes, sir.”

“Books first, then robes. Then we will head to the Muggle part of town for your clothing. We will pick our wizarding purchases on our way out, before we catch the train.”

Harry frowned to himself. He didn’t understand why the man had insisted on taking the train into London, then Apparating from there to the Apparition point in the Alley. It had been a long ride, and Snape had had to keep quaffing his disgusting potion in order to remain disguised. Harry’s only conclusion was that the man was beyond paranoid.

But perhaps with good reason.

Flourish and Blott’s was first. The summer crowd was thick as ever, with gaggles of the lower forms massing in the textbook section. Their raucous laughter and squeals occasionally split the air, punctuated more often than not by parental reprimands. Harry recognized a fair number of them—by face, if not by name.

For a moment he wished he wasn’t disguised. It had seemed like ages since he’d been at Hogwarts. The last time….

And then the flood of memories of the Third Task hit him, quashing all desire to be seen as Harry Potter, the boy who’d dragged Cedric Diggory’s lifeless body back to Hogwarts. The boy who thought he’d seen Voldemort. The liar, the cheat, the fraud. The boy who’d let Cedric die.

“Your list.” Snape’s Polyjuiced voice drew him out of his morose thoughts. The man was offering out a folded piece of parchment. “I will be browsing near the front. Find me when you have everything.”

“Okay.” Harry took the parchment and started to look it over. There weren’t too many titles, at least. “Um, when I go to pay—”

“I will take care of matters.”

“I thought you said that you and the Headmaster had made arrangements—”

“We have,” Snape growled impatiently, shooting a mild glare at Harry. “In the interest of preserving anonymity for the both of us, I will be handling payments for you today. You need not concern yourself any further with it.”

“You have access to my vault then?” Harry asked faintly, feeling a bit queasy. Not that Snape would empty it or anything, but… well, Harry couldn’t quite place it. Maybe… maybe it was the way that vault had always represented security to him. Independence. It meant he could provide for himself, that he didn’t need to ask anyone else for anything.

“I am currently acting as your guardian. Do not tell me you believe I will abuse any privileges that might grant me—”

“No,” Harry replied quickly, wincing at the irritation in Snape’s voice. “I just… I’m not used to… to having someone else….” Harry swallowed thickly. God, he sounded pathetic. Like a sniveling orphan. “Never mind. I’ll just… yeah.”

With that Harry turned to gather his books.

XXXXX

The rest of the shopping was… not terrible, Harry had to admit. Snape had mostly let Harry take care of things, only stepping in to arrange for payment at the very end. Harry wished he had a little more control over that end of things—it was his money, after all. But he knew better than to challenge Snape on the matter a second time.

The only time things had been less than pleasant had been just before the Muggle portion of the trip. Snape had just finished checking over Harry’s list. He’d appeared to ponder it carefully for a few unbearably long minutes before making some minor corrections. He added a Muggle winter coat and spring jacket, new trainers and hiking boots, two button-up shirts, casual clothing, three good belts, and a few other odds and ends that, Harry had to begrudgingly admit, made a great deal of sense.

Slippers and a night robe, for example. Harry never would have thought of those things on his own, but he’d longed for something of the sort when he’d awoken in the dorm over the years and needed to make the trip to the loo. Or just wanted to spend a lazy weekend morning lounging before the fire.

Yes, Harry could admit that all the corrections Snape had made were sound, but it was the _way_ that the man had done it. He’d not suggested them at all. He’d announced them, as if Harry were completely incapable of managing things on his own, as if he hadn’t shifted for himself all his life. That alone was enough to put him in a sour mood.

But then Snape had refused to answer even simple questions about how his money was being handled.

“I get that you were able to arrange things with Gringotts for the—the, uh, other stuff we got,” Harry began as they’d headed down to the bus stop nearest to the Leaky Cauldron. He was mindful not to mention wizarding things directly, just in case. “But for the rest of it—”

“What did I tell you earlier?” Snape had demanded irritably, casting a dark look back at Harry.

“Nothing! You explained nothing. You just said it was handled—”

“And that you were _not to concern yourself with it_. Arrangements have been made.”

Harry stopped dead in his tracks, folding his arms over his chest. He wasn’t going to put up with this. Snape had no right. He was going to have his answers, even if he had to throw a Dudley-level tantrum to get them.

Snape made it about twenty paces ahead before he realized that Harry was no longer following him. Harry could hear the man snarl as he whipped around on the sidewalk and stalked back to tower over his charge.

“Just what do you think you are doing?” he hissed, his teeth clenched and bared.

“I want to know what these _arrangements_ are, because I’m the one who has to budget for another three years at least—”

“You’ve plenty of gold, believe me,” Snape retorted, the words bitter. “I will inform you if you risk going over budget, though I believe that is extremely unlikely—”

“I don’t know what my budget is! I still have to figure it out! It’s not up to _you_ to decide—”

“It is not something you need to concern yourself with, _as I have already said_. Now drop this matter and come along.”

“It’s my money! It’s my responsibility! I’ve handled it for four years already, haven’t I? I don’t need you to come in here and hold my hand—”

“I am not holding your hand, I am alleviating an unnecessary worry. One would think you would be at least a little grateful—”

“I never asked you to do a damned thing for me, so don’t act like a martyr!”

Snape glared at him silently for a moment, then finally raised a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, just as he’d done the previous night, as if Harry was simply too much for him to bear. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet—tight, restrained, laced with tension. “Everything has already been arranged for. You are welcome to request an accounting of your vault from the goblins as soon as we return home for the day, but that will not change the fact that you have more than enough money to see to your basic needs today. Our intention when making these arrangements was to give you a break from, as you have put it, having to shift for yourself. Now, I would rather simply finish this trip without further unnecessary complications. Might we proceed?”

Harry was still bristling at the man’s words. He didn’t want to simply _proceed_ , and he doubted that Snape had done anything with consideration for him. Likely the man thought Harry too incompetent to see to his own finances. But Harry doubted that Snape would ever admit that.

“Fine.” Harry knew he sounded petulant, but he didn’t care.

“Cut the attitude,” Snape warned quietly, his voice turning deadly calm. “Or I shall make your purchases for you and end this trip early.”

Harry knew his cheeks were warm. He wished that they weren’t. “I just—look, will you take me to return things if it turns out—”

“Merciful Merlin, boy, do you have any clue as to how much money was left to you?” Snape growled in exasperation, dropping his hand. “You could comfortably purchase an entire department store! Have you never glanced at an account statement in your life?”

Harry clamped his mouth shut, hoping that Snape would just drop the whole topic and insist they get on with their business. He was far too embarrassed to admit to the man that he didn’t know how to do any such thing. And he knew better than to open himself up to so much ridicule.

But, as it turned out, Snape did not need Harry to respond vocally in order to surmise the answer to his question.

The surprising thing was what the man chose to do with his conclusion. “I will show you sometime this week how to request and read such things.” Now his voice was soft and even, no trace of judgment in it. “I assumed….” But he allowed those words to trail off. “Come. Let’s finish this.” Snape paused long enough to slip a small flask from his belt and take the necessary swig to renew the Polyjuice, before turning away from Harry and continuing along the street.

Harry forced himself to draw a deep breath and exhale before he followed after the man.

XXXXX

Harry started preparing tea at quarter to five. He could not dredge up even a trace of resentment for the task, not after Snape had been… well, more than decent. Harry had expected the man to lurk in a corner while he finished up all of his clothes shopping, but he’d done better than that.

Snape had stayed out of the way for the most part, remaining close enough that Harry felt safe (not that too many Death Eaters would be wandering into Marks and Spencer). Still, his professor’s presence had certainly been—well, perhaps _comforting_ was overstating the matter. Reassuring, maybe.

But not only had Snape remained close but unobtrusive, the few times he’d ventured to make comments he’d been incredibly useful. He’d offhandedly mentioned that the zip-up Harry had chosen didn’t look well-made, and that there had been a nicer rack of them a few feet back. Once he’d remarked on a jumper Harry had grabbed that had a snag that Harry had overlooked. And when Harry had been quietly agonizing over two pairs of trainers, Snape had suggested that he simply buy both, since he was likely to wear through a single pair quickly enough with Quidditch.

When they’d been in Madame Malkin’s in Diagon, Snape hadn’t said a thing, instead letting the witch assisting him make all the wardrobe suggestions, most of which Harry had reluctantly agreed to. But as soon as they’d hit London proper, with its massive department stores and dearth of knowledgeable salespeople, Snape had stepped in with his surprisingly astute bits of advice.

And so, Harry told himself, it was only natural that he feel a bit… well, grateful, to the man. Grateful enough that this small, menial task he’d been assigned didn’t seem so terrible.

For a moment he was tempted to use a Heating Charm to spell the water hot, but he decided against it at the last moment. He was less convinced that Snape was trying to get him into trouble by suggesting he flout the Decree, but he was still disinclined to take the risk.

He couldn’t help but reflect on the last two days as he measured out the tea for the pot and think that Snape really had been… decent. That was the word for it. It had been good, actually, to have the man along.

Oh, there was no doubt in Harry’s mind that Snape still despised him—or, at the very least, disliked him. But he hadn’t allowed that to show much today, really. He’d been useful, and protective, but not overbearingly so. Once, Harry had even caught himself wondering if this was what it was like to have….

And he’d stopped that thought dead, just as he stopped it now by allowing the back of his knuckles to brush against the hot steel of the kettle as he grabbed it from the stove. Snape was _not_ anything to him, even if he was currently in charge of Harry. Even if he was taking those duties seriously. He was just making sure that Harry was fed and clothed and had school supplies, nothing more. What any decent person would do in the same situation. And Snape was decent in that way at least. Decent only, though. Nothing more.

Harry nearly slammed the kettle onto one of the unlit burners before hurrying through the sitting room and up the stairs. He didn’t want to see Snape. He didn’t want to face the man down.

Damn it. Harry hated himself for the thought that had flitted through his head just then. One day of shopping, was that really all it took for him to turn utterly pathetic?

There was no denying it though. For just a moment he’d wondered what it would be like for Snape to be more. To be able to go to the man for advice on stupid, silly, trivial things. To be able to borrow ties from him when he needed them (though he had two of his own now, one red and one silver).

Hell, where had that even come from? He certainly didn’t even _like_ Snape. And the man certainly didn’t _like_ Harry. So what sick, twisted part of him had jumped to that little fantasy?

He was going stir-crazy, he concluded. He’d been stuck with the man for too long, and now he was developing that psychological condition—what was it? Stockholm Syndrome, that was it. He was just spending too much time around the man, that was all.

God, Snape would laugh himself sick if he ever found out what Harry had just been thinking. Or just growl in disgust. He was only letting Harry stay because… well, Harry didn’t exactly know. Probably because Dumbledore insisted.

Probably because no one else really wanted him, too, he thought as his eyes fell on the unopened letters on his desk. Snape was just stuck with him. No one else was willing to put up with him and all his problems.

Except his friends. A small, feeble smile curled over Harry’s lips as he retrieved the letters they’d written him from the baseboard. He’d have their answers soon, he reckoned. And Hedwig would be back.

And as long as he stayed out of Snape’s way—and ate—the man would probably ignore him. And, Harry vowed, he _would_ stay out of Snape’s way. He’d make tea for him, since that wasn’t really much of a chore at all. But apart from meals, he would keep to himself. And summer would pass, and then he’d be back at Hogwarts, back with his friends.

A stab of remorse lanced through him. Hogwarts. Cedric. The graveyard. Voldemort. Cedric was still dead, and Voldemort was back….

And there was nothing he could do, he reminded himself fiercely, before the panic could overwhelm him. Not right now, at least. Once he got back, once he could talk with his friends, they could plan.

At least that was one good thing about this hellish stretch with Snape. Their constant fighting hadn’t left much room for him to think about the Tournament, or the graveyard, or all the other problems that came with Voldemort’s return. He’d been too busy fixating on how much he hated Snape.

But now… well, that had mostly subsided. So he supposed that it was only natural that other things start to creep back in. Maybe he should pick a fight with the potions master….

No. He shook his head to himself and returned to re-reading his letters. He would find other ways to distract himself. He would give Snape no cause to pay him any more mind before the end of the summer. He would be a ghost in the man’s house. The Dursleys had, if nothing else, prepared him well for that.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snape uses Harry's first name. Harry asks him to please not.

Harry jerked up with a gasp, heart thudding hard in his chest, a name still on his lips. He was about to yell it out, but it was becoming clearer to him with each passing second that he was no longer in the graveyard.

He was in a bedroom. Not his bedroom at Privet. The moonlight patterns were all wrong for that. No, he remembered slowly, as he groped the bedside table for his glasses, he was at Snape’s house.

Good thing he hadn’t screamed out. He could only imagine how irate the man would be to wake to Harry’s screams over a nightmare.

Harry rubbed his hands up and down his arms a few times, squeezing his eyes back shut. He needed to ground himself. Needed to push all those terrible images back away, far from his conscious thoughts. Needed to stop seeing Cedric lying there, still, his eyes wide and staring at nothing….

Harry abruptly pushed himself up from his bed. Snape had said he wasn’t confined to his room, right? Well, he needed a walk, and a bit of fresh air.

And apart from that, he still had his album to retrieve.

Decided, Harry pulled one of his new jumpers from the wardrobe in the room (where Snape had insisted he _properly_ store his new belongings, rather than stuffing them “pell-mell into that shabby excuse of a trunk you have”). Harry had been mildly annoyed at the insinuation there, but had managed to keep himself from rising to the bait. After all, Snape seemed to think Harry was loaded with galleons, so clearly it wasn’t a jab at him being poor. And the damned thing was still sturdy and functional, if a bit scuffed. So he’d let the comment pass.

Now he slipped carefully from the room, making sure to close the door softly behind him. He half-expected to find Snape sitting up again, waiting, it seemed, for Harry to try to retrieve his most valued possession.

But it was dark and quiet downstairs, the same as the night he’d snuck down to have a wash. The fire was banked, but by its ashes he could see well enough to navigate the parlor.

Harry breathed a small sigh of relief and scurried through the downstairs rooms, weaving deftly through the dark kitchen and straight out into the yard. The ground was wet with pre-morning dew, and unpleasantly chilled against his bare feet, but he shrugged off the sensation, instead darting straight for the shed, where he began rifling through the stacked debris, praying to the heavens that nothing had happened, that the album was still intact.

It was a few moments of desperate shuffling before his fingers brushed against the corners of the book. By then he nearly had a headache from the musty air of the shed, and his heart was hammering so loudly in his ears that it drowned out everything else. He freed it from beneath a half-rotted, nail-laced board, brushing aside the dirty, torn tarp that had concealed it from sight, and immediately cradled the whole thing to his chest.

Harry took a deep, shaky breath, and realized in that moment just how much he’d been worried about his album. It felt as if his lungs had been pinned in places, and someone had finally pulled those pins out enough that he could breathe properly. He drew in another deep, calming breath, relishing the sensation of his chest fully expanding and collapsing.

Now to just get it up to his room. Hedwig hadn’t returned just yet, but she would be back soon, he knew. He would have to find something to wrap the album in, perhaps some spare parcel paper—ha, as if _Snape_ would have any of that lying around. As if the unpleasant, bitter Potions Master had anyone he would send packages to.

Yes, Harry decided, he would have to make do with something else. If he wasn’t so concerned about Snape setting him up, he’d just Transfigure a bit of paper from something he wouldn’t miss—one of his old socks, maybe, since he now had a whole drawerful of them in his room.

Guest room, he corrected himself. In Snape’s guest room.

He would figure something out. He always did. Maybe Hedwig would take it in one of Dudley’s ratty old jumpers….

Harry wasted no time in slipping back into the house. He found himself once again thinking just how grateful he was that he’d been raised in the Dursley house, and so knew how to move around stealthily in the dead of night. He briefly thought about snagging a late-night snack when passing through the kitchen, just for old time’s sake.

Not that he needed that any more. Snape fed him well. And if Harry didn’t know better, he would have sworn that Snape was doing his best to make foods that Harry liked, though he wasn’t sure how the man would possibly know what Harry preferred. Beef barley soup and kidney pie, and bangers and mash one night….

Coincidence, he decided, though that was harder to believe since Snape had inquired about his preferences.

Once he’d made it back up to his room, Harry buried his album at the bottom of his trunk once more. Then he settled back into his favorite spot on the floor.

His heart was still hammering, and he knew from that alone that he wouldn’t be falling back asleep anytime soon.

That was fine. It was peaceful, in a way, to stare out at the half-moon and stars over the rooftops and search for a swooping, black form. Maybe Hedwig would be back before the morning. Maybe she could keep him company.

XXXXX

“Potter.”

Harry jerked his head up at the sound of his name, startled, and managed to wrench a muscle in the process. He tried to surreptitiously reach a hand up to rub at his neck as he turned his attention to Snape.

Snape was staring at him over the top of the Prophet, one eyebrow arched at him. “Are you going to eat your breakfast? Or merely fall asleep in it?”

Harry flushed and turned away from the man, feeling the heat prickle all the way down to his collar. He’d been drifting a bit, sure, but what the hell did that matter to Snape? This, he thought, was why he needed to be more careful in choosing when to come downstairs.

He’d risen early, as usual, hoping to avoid the man altogether. Well, maybe _risen_ was a bit of a stretch, since he’d ended up lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, for the earliest hours of the morning. He’d gotten up, though, before the sun. Usually Snape was still sound asleep.

Yet the man had been waiting for him downstairs, coffee in one hand and the Prophet folded on the table before him, his dark eyes flickering over the front-page story. He’d nodded his head at the stove and announced to Harry there was porridge before going back to his silent reading.

Harry couldn’t think of a reply to Snape, so instead he snatched up his spoon and started shoveling down bites. The sooner he finished, the sooner he could retreat upstairs.

Snape seemed displeased at Harry’s lack of response—which was good by Harry. That frown told Harry that he’d made the right decision not to respond. The more he irked Snape, the better, as far as he was concerned. Best to keep reminding himself, too, that they were enemies, and would go back to the old antagonism, likely, as soon as the summer ended.

And Snape knew things, now, about Harry….

Harry shook his head slightly to himself. No sense in tormenting himself with those thoughts. Snape would do what he would with that information, wouldn’t he? Harry would just have to learn to cope with it.

A surge of irritation passed through him as his attention caught on the title of the Prophet’s first article. “BOY WHO LIVED BOY WHO LIES?” blared across the top in flashing letters. No wonder Snape was enjoying the paper. Having the whole wizarding world turn on the famous Harry Potter? It was a wonder Snape wasn’t rubbing it in more.

Well, he reminded himself, the man had been mostly decent for a while now. Even if that was still hard to believe.

Harry scraped his bowl clean, thinking he would give Snape no further reason to keep him down here. On cue, he felt the Sticking Hex release. He hurried to dump his bowl in the sink (since Snape wouldn’t let him wash it himself for whatever reason), and nearly managed to skirt out of the kitchen, but Snape’s summons caught him before he could get that far.

“A moment, Potter.”

Harry turned, schooling his features as best he could. “Sir?” he inquired blandly.

“I have a short meeting this afternoon with the headmaster. Black, Lupin, and Mrs. Weasley will be present as well. Do you have anything you wished to deliver to them?”

Harry blanched. “My owl’s here now—”

“I am aware,” Snape snapped.

Harry felt his chest tighten even further as the reason for that irritation hit him. Hedwig had returned early that morning. She’d been mostly quiet, but she’d hooted and cooed a bit, hadn’t she? And rattled her cage when she’d settled back into it. So of course it wasn’t coincidence that Snape was up this early.

“Look, sir, I—she didn’t mean to disturb you when she came back. I’m sorry—”

That did nothing to quell the man’s agitation. If anything, it only made it worse. Much worse. “She’s an owl, Potter! Intelligent though she may be, I highly doubt she can be taught to keep entirely silent—”

“No,” Harry cut in, his hands clutching automatically at the hem of his shirt. “But listen, I’ll work on training her, okay? I swear, I’ll work with her every day. And… and maybe you could cast a Silencing Charm, too, just in case? Just—just please don’t send her away—”

“I am not going to send the blasted bird away!” Snape burst out, slamming his coffee cup down onto the table. “And if you had two brain cells to keep one another company, you would realize as much!” And then, seemingly ashamed that he’d lost control of himself, Snape recomposed himself. He folded his hands in his lap and chose a point on the wall far to the left of Harry to stare at. “If you have replies for me to deliver, bring them to me at lunch.”

Harry winced. Snape had been cooking a lot of meals lately, lunch included, which was really odd. Not to mention uncomfortable for Harry, since he had to share all of them with the man. “I—I can make a sandwich for myself today, you know. You don’t have to do anything elaborate—”

“Do not presume to tell me how to provide for you.” Snape’s tone was cold through and through.

“Yes, sir.”

Harry decided that he would sleep through breakfast the next morning, and make himself as scarce as humanly possible in between meals, even if that meant hiding in the shed in the yard for the rest of the day.

Maybe, in between making himself scarce, he could scrounge up some paper so that he could send out his album, just in case Snape remembered his threats the next time Harry got under his skin.

XXXXX

Snape didn’t trust him. The thought had been on his mind all morning, ever since he’d awoken sometime around four in the morning, panting once again, only to hear his door crack just minutes later. He’d very carefully shifted his gaze over to find Snape looming in the doorway, his face obscured by the light flooding in from the hallway. He’d stayed there for a few moments, watching.

Harry had closed his eyes, but he’d felt the man’s gaze lingering. Likely he’d been trying to reassure himself that his little felon wasn’t doing anything suspicious.

Eventually he’d left. And Harry had laid there, seething quietly, trying to fall asleep but too angry and tense to do so. He’d managed to drift off a few more times, but always into an uneasy sleep. Finally, sometime around midmorning, he decided to get up.

Snape would be up, he knew. Probably taking breakfast, sipping his coffee and pretending that nothing was wrong, that he didn’t secretly believe that Harry was up to no good, plotting in the dead of night.

He could already feel the tension building between his shoulder blades. God, he wished he could just go back to the Dursleys. He wished that Snape didn’t have some weird vendetta against him that included holding him hostage here and assuming his guardianship, even though Harry hadn’t actually done anything wrong. For God’s sake, he’d been cleared in the Muggle courts and he’d privately given testimony to the man under Veritaserum! What more did he want?

And then last night… the thought of being so mistrusted that he wasn’t permitted to simply go to bed, the thought that Snape was checking in on him regularly… that made his blood boil. He’d endured Snape’s insults and open hostility back when he’d been accused of burgling old Mrs. Applewhite’s home, and without once trying to make a break for it. He wasn’t stupid. Why couldn’t Snape get that?  
  


Oh, because he still didn’t trust a Potter further than he could throw him. And that in spite of everything Harry had endured this summer, in spite of the fact that he’d yet to do anything truly brainless or deserving of reproach.

Well, there was nothing for it. So what if he’d thought, for just a few moments there, that the man could be decent? That maybe the professor had gotten over a little bit of his suspicion for Harry Bloody Potter? Clearly he hadn’t. Clearly he still believed that his little criminal would do something stupid in the middle of the night, even though Harry knew full well that a homicidal dark wizard was after him, just _waiting_ for him to make a dumb mistake.

Well, he wasn’t going to stand for this, was he? No, he was going to give Snape a piece of his mind. He drew himself up straight and marched into the kitchen, where Snape was already seated at the table, sipping from his coffee, the Daily Prophet spread out before him. He glanced up as Harry entered, gave a short nod of acknowledgment, then resumed his perusal of the periodical.

Harry slammed himself down into his chair with a great deal more force than was strictly necessary. Snape’s eyes flickered up momentarily, cool and calculating, then back down; the man was deliberately choosing to ignore Harry’s mood.

And that irked Harry more than anything. A barbed insult he could reply to in kind. But this maddening silence? He’d come across as an utter lunatic if he just started railing at Snape.

So Harry sucked in a deep breath, and stated as evenly as he could manage, “I’m really not so stupid as to try running off in the middle of the night, you know.”

Snape’s eyes flickered back up again, this time wide with surprise. His brow had disappeared up his forehead. But he remained calm as ever when he replied. “I should hope not.” And he let things hang there, his unspoken question echoing in the silence between them.

As if Harry had to explain himself. “Well, you were checking last night,” he snapped impatiently, “and I just thought that you should know that, regardless of how stupid you think I am, I am _not_ dumb enough to just blindly run off into the night. Not after what I saw last spring.”

Snape blinked once. Twice. “You were awake then?” he finally asked, his tone too bland to be natural.

“Yeah, I was awake,” Harry spat, “so don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. You don’t need to do nightly bed checks to make sure your delinquent isn’t trying to slip away—“

“Merlin, Potter, I wasn’t doing a _bed check_ ,” Snape cut in, exasperated. “I do know you have better sense than to just leave in the middle of the night for whatever reason. And besides, you still have your ring. I have better ways of keeping track of you than physically verifying your presence. So wherever you got that blasted idea—“

“Right, so you just _happened_ by my room, and the door just _happened_ to swing open, and you just _happened_ to look in—“

“You idiot boy, I never said I wasn’t checking on you! But not to ascertain that you hadn’t run off! I do trust you not to pull such a stunt—“

“Ha,” Harry cut him off, “you don’t trust me at all. You were checking on me, which means that you suspected I was up to something, even though I was just lying there, even though I’ve done everything you’ve asked since we got here, and done my best to stay the hell out of your way and—“

“Damn it, Harry,” Snape hissed, his hand coming down hard on the table, “I didn’t think you were _up to something_. I was checking to see if you were well and settled for the night, nothing more! Do I need to swear that before the entire Wizengamot?”

That took the wind right out of Harry’s sails. He couldn’t doubt the man, who looked so very offended that he’d been accused of—well, of thinking the worst of Harry. Which he always did, without fail. It didn’t sound like he was lying about just looking in on Harry, but Harry knew better than that. Snape looking in on him… it was too parental.

And why the hell would the man bother? Harry had kept to himself, after all, and the man had ceased berating and insulting him at every turn. They were civil to each other. Why disrupt their routine now? It wasn’t like Harry was acting strangely, or doing anything that merited closer scrutiny.

“If you don’t have a problem, then you don’t need to come looking in after me. And if you do have a problem, you can ask me directly about it. I don’t care if you have to put me back under Veritaserum so you’ll trust my answers. I’m not plotting anything, I’m not going to sneak off, and I’m not mental, so you can just back off.”

Harry saw Snape’s hands clench into fists, and that was how he knew he’d struck a nerve. The man’s nostrils flared as he drew in a deep breath, then began sharply, “I am your guardian. It is my responsibility to look after your well-being—every aspect of it. If I feel I need to check in on you from time to time—“

“I’m _fine_ ,” Harry broke in angrily. “Not that it should even matter to you! All you signed up for was feeding me and keeping a roof over my head. That’s _it_ , so just—just back off with the other stuff.”

Snape pushed himself violently to his feet. “One, I do not _hate_ you—“

“Loathe me, then. Whatever.” Harry stood too, intent on not giving up an inch.

“I do not loathe you—“

“Right.” Harry barked out a laugh. “Dislike me intensely. Can’t stand me. _Whatever_. Look, I’ve been doing my best to make myself scarce since you insist on keeping me here. Maybe I’ve been _too quiet_ for your comfort, but I’m not plotting anything, just like I wasn’t before when you thought I was being _too polite_. If you’re so damned paranoid about it, send me away—“

“I have already told you that I do not suspect you of—of plotting,” Snape cut in. “And I am not sending you away. We have been over this. Much as you might like to go to the Weasleys—“  
  
“The danger. Right. And same thing with Hermione’s folks. Neville’s gran is getting on in her years and can’t handle another child running amuck in her home. Which leaves… let’s see, you or… hm, my actual relatives—“

“The very relatives who allowed your cousin to frame you for a felony, then refused to aid you once you’d been arrested, though they knew very well that your life was in danger. And that’s not mentioning the rest of your treatment at their hands. You will not be going back to them, ever, blood wards be damned, so cease belaboring the point. Perhaps this is not your ideal situation—“

“Yes, I know, it’s not yours either, and you’re the one being burdened, not me, and I should be grateful that I have somewhere to go at all. I _get_ it, and I _am_ grateful, but I just—look. I think I deserve a little trust, yeah? I’m already wearing this”—Harry pointed to the ring—“and I haven’t done a damned thing wrong yet. So if you would stop treating me like a criminal, since we’ve already established that I’m actually not one—“

“I am not treating you like a criminal! Merlin’s beard, boy, peeking into your room does not imply that I suspect you’re breaking the law in the dead of night! You’ve seemed tired of late, and I wanted to make certain you weren’t thrashing around in your sleep. I was not planning to launch a grand inquisition into your nocturnal activities.” Snape folded his arms tightly over his chest, his lips pursing in to a tight frown. “And that begs the question. So. Have you been sleeping well?”

“None of your sodding business,” Harry snapped, before he could stop himself.

Snape winced slightly, but surprisingly did not immediately tear into him for his utter lack of respect. “I beg to differ. You are currently my ward. We have been over this, too. Your wellbeing—“

“I’m _well_. There’s nothing more to be said. Unless I’ve been disturbing you, in which case I’ll put up a Silencing Charm—“

“You’ve been having nightmares?” Snape broke in, his tone strangely sharp, almost alarmed. “When did this start?”

Shit. Harry cursed himself for ever opening his mouth. “Like I said, none of your business. And even if it were, it’s not like they’re that bad—“

“It’s obvious these must be fairly violent nightmares if you run the risk of waking me!” Snape growled. “Not to mention the fact that they’ve been a source of insomnia—“

“Well, I’m nearly fifteen, not five, so I don’t need help dealing with them. If I’m not bothering you, you have no reason to complain—“

“I’m not complaining, you daft boy, I’m trying to help, though I don’t know how I can be expected to when you cannot even admit to these problems!”  
  


That was the last straw for Harry. He pushed himself to his feet as well, aware too late that the Sticking Charm had taken hold and that his chair was still firmly attached to his backside. “I don’t expect you to help! I don’t need anything from you, and I don’t understand why you think otherwise! I’m sure you have better things to do than worry after Harry Bloody Potter. I don’t need my mealtimes regulated, I don’t need you to help with nightmares—I have to stay here, fine! But don’t think that letting me live here means you have to act like—like—“

“Like a guardian?” Snape provided evenly, seemingly having regained his composure. “Sit down,” he added as an afterthought, “before you topple over.”  
  


“You could just release the spell,” Harry suggested caustically.

Surprisingly, Snape complied, withdrawing his wand and twirling it in a complex little pattern. The chair immediately clattered to the floor. Then, too calmly, Snape said, “Please sit down.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Harry complied. It was too compelling, hearing Snape use the word _please_ in a non-sarcastic manner. That, and considering his outburst earlier, which Snape had yet to reprimand him for… well, Harry figured it was just best to quit while he was behind.

Not that he was ever anything but _behind_ , per se, with Snape.

And then Snape continued to shatter all expectations. “Thank you,” he said quietly, settling back into his own chair. And then he just watched Harry, his eyes far too intense for comfort.

Harry didn’t know what to do. He was dying to just walk out, maybe retreat to his room and stay there until things started to make sense again. But he didn’t think that wise. He and Snape had been managing a relatively peaceful coexistence lately, and he didn’t really want to upset that by ignoring a politely phrased request.

But God, he wished the man would just say whatever it was he was going to say.

“I think we are in dire need of a frank discussion,” Snape announced at last.

Harry desperately wanted to retort that their little exchange just moments ago had been pretty damned _frank_ , but he restrained himself. Instead, he asked as respectfully as he could currently manage, “About what, sir?”

Snape heaved a sigh and scrubbed a hand over his face. “About our… rapport, if you will. We cannot continue like this—and no, before you suggest it, I am not sending you away. That topic is closed—permanently—and I beg you not to bring it up again.”

Well. That was not what Harry had been expecting. _Your utter lack of respect for me_ , perhaps. _Your insupportable sulking_ , too. Or any other number of invented and embellished faults. _Your pathetic attempts to pretend to be well-behaved and civilized_ , now, that sounded more like Snape. But something as mild as—what had Snape said, their _rapport_?

“I think we’ve been getting on fine, sir,” Harry offered. Because, really, they had, all things considered. Perhaps Harry had worded his objections to Snape’s monitoring a little strongly this morning, but apart from that the Potions Master hadn’t blown up on him or attempted to punish him in ages. Since well before the trial, in fact.

“Really.” Those two syllables dripped sarcasm. “Even though you seem to be under too many misapprehensions to count. Not to mention the fact that you have been hiding from me—thank you for confirming that suspicion, by the way. Yet we get on _fine_.”

“Well enough,” Harry muttered. “And I wasn’t hiding. Hiding implies fear, and I’m not afraid of you. I was just keeping out of your way.”

Harry expected some kind of indignant retort to that, something along the lines of, _you_ should _fear me, Potter, seeing as I could hex you into oblivion_.

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. “You don’t fear me. Well. At least we have that going for us.”

“Look, sir, if you have a problem with me—“

“I don’t, Harry. That’s not what this is about.”

Harry winced. “Don’t call me that.”

Snape just blinked in response to that. “What? Harry?”

“Yeah. Just—don’t. I don’t know what you’re trying to do—“

“It is your name, is it not?” Snape inquired coolly, his words enunciated just slowly enough to be insulting.

“Yeah, but—look. That’s what people who _like_ me call me.”

“Ah.” Snape folded his arms back over his chest and leaned back slightly. “Another point that needs clarification. But for the moment, I fail to see the issue—“

“You’re my professor! And nothing more, even if you’re my temporary guardian—emphasis on temporary. You don’t even know me. It’s—it’s like if I went around calling you _Severus_ —“

“You may.”

That about floored Harry. In fact, he was utterly convinced at first that he had entirely misheard the man. “Excuse me?”

“I said that you may use my given name, if you wish. We are not in school, and it would… behoove us, I think, if we dispensed with the formalities, titles and honorifics included.”

Harry just stared at the man, searching for a twitch or the arch of an eyebrow, or anything to indicate that this was nothing more than razor-sharp sarcasm cleverly concealed behind a calm façade. But Snape stared straight back, unfazed and entirely unyielding.

“I—“ Harry swallowed. “You don’t really want me to call you that. You’re just saying it so—“

“So that I feel better about using your given name against your express wishes?” Snape provided too smoothly. “Yes, I am one to waste breath on efforts to keep the peace. I’ve tried to pacify and placate you at every turn, haven’t I? Fortunate for you that I have been so very accommodating.”

Harry huffed out an impatient breath. “You don’t seriously want me to call you Severus—“

“I do. But I know that there is little I can say to convince you of the matter, so we shall have to leave it there. Besides, we have more important things to address. Your belief that I hate you, for one.”

Harry opened his mouth to reply to that, but Snape held up a finger, rose to his feet, and flicked his wrist in what Harry now recognized as a particularly accomplished wandless, wordless Summoning Spell. A book came zooming in from the library and into Snape’s outstretched hand.

He tossed the thick, dusty volume down onto the table before Harry. It landed hard, sending small puffs of whirling dust motes outward from its pages as it landed.

“What’s this?” Harry demanded, touching the cover cautiously.

“A thesaurus, to aid you when I clarify this point. I do not hate you, I do not loathe you, I do not dislike you. I do not abhor, despise, disdain, or disapprove of you. I do not find you intolerable, irritating, irksome, bothersome, insufferable, obnoxious, or horrid. If I’ve missed something, please, look it up in that”—he gestured loosely to the thesaurus—“so that I might provide further clarification.” Snape paused a moment there, his glittering obsidian eyes locked on Harry. When Harry said nothing, he continued in a low, gravelly voice, “Do you think that everything I’ve learned about you over these past weeks has been locked away in my mind? Do you truly believe me so petty and spiteful as to ignore the piles of evidence before my very eyes that I have been hopelessly wrong in my assessment of you?”

Harry didn’t know what to make of that. So he stayed quiet, waiting, not wanting to provoke the man.

“Well?” Snape demanded sharply. Clearly it had not been a rhetorical question.

So Harry answered honestly, and he could not keep the resentment out of his tone. “I wouldn’t know, sir. I don’t presume to know how you think.”

“Oh?” Snape countered, his own tone growing severe. “On the contrary. You seem perfectly content believing you know what I think of you—“

“Based on the evidence of past experience!” Harry broke in angrily. “You hated me from the moment you set eyes on me, and you’ve been nothing short of awful ever since.”

“Yes,” Snape agreed levelly. Once again, the man’s words managed to knock Harry entirely off balance. “I admit my past conduct has left something to be desired. It was wrong and unconscionable of me to exorcise old grudges on you. But the emphasis, Harry, is that this behavior is _past_.”

“Oh, is it?” Harry demanded frostily. “And that makes it all better, I suppose—“

“No, it certainly does not. You have every right to be angry with me, to mistrust me—that I freely admit. However, it does not mean that I will allow you to continue avoiding the issue. If you wish to rail at me, fine. Please do so. But hiding in your room—“

“Not _hiding—“_

“Yes, _hiding_ ,” Snape hissed. “Perhaps not from me, but from your own anger and hurt—“

“I am not _hurt_ , for God’s sake. And yeah, sure, I’m good and ticked that everything has turned out as it has, but I’m not stupid enough to go screaming about it—“

“It is not healthy to internalize your rage. You’ve been repressing it entirely as of late—“

“Because I don’t fancy another screaming match with you, do I? And if you’re so concerned, I’ll just go yell into a pillow, all right? Now….” Harry started to rise from his seat.

“Sit,” the Potions Master snapped. “We are far from finished.”

Harry slammed himself back down, knowing that he likely came off as sulky and childish. But he didn’t care at this point. He was sick of this—whatever it was. Snape trying to play psychologist. Yeah, that was it. Snape trying to shrink his head, though God knew why the man was bothering. “What?” Harry growled. “Am I forbidden from staying in my room now?”

“No,” Snape replied curtly, the single word taut. “I am not of a mind to forbid you from anything.”

“Except from skipping meals,” Harry grumbled.

“That,” Snape pronounced coldly, “is a matter of your health. I will not compromise on that point. You will take three balanced meals a day, and that is the end of the discussion. What you do with your free time, however, that I will not dictate. You are fifteen, not five, as you’ve already pointed out.”

Harry huffed out a great breath of air. “Fine. But you don’t need to resort to that stupid charm—“

“It has no effect on you unless you refuse to eat,” Snape cut in smoothly. “Prove to me that you are taking your eating habits seriously and I will consider relenting. Until then, I will use any means at my disposal to keep you from becoming any more underweight.”

“Fine,” Harry repeated, this time more emphatically. “Was that all?”

“You are upset with me,” Snape stated plainly, ignoring Harry’s question.

Harry just stared at the man, trying to decide if he could somehow avoid the lecture that was sure to follow. “I’ll work on it,” he grumbled. “I just need some time to myself—“  
  


“You misunderstand me. I am not trying to reprimand you, Harry. What, specifically, have I done to anger you?”

Ha. Harry knew that trick. Vernon liked it too. Every once in while he would come across as all reasonable and charitable. _What is it, boy? Is something wrong? Tell me about it_. Harry had been dense enough to fall for it at first. He would complain about his chores and his aches and pains, and expect nodding and sympathy and apologies.

The concern was the bait for the trap, though, and Harry would walk right into it before it would close all around him. Then Vernon would begin explaining his disappointment that Harry was so very ungrateful, and had no work ethic, etc. Harry’s complaints would be twisted around until he was made into the spoilt little brat who couldn’t be bothered to help out with the upkeep of the household, who expected to be coddled at every turn, and so on. And Harry would end up feeling twice as miserable by the end of it.

So Harry answered blandly, “Nothing, sir. I’ll work on controlling my temper—“

That set Snape off. “Do not,” he growled, his tone dropping low, “dismiss me like that. An answer, Potter.”

“Nothing, sir,” Harry repeated dully. “The trial had me on edge, and I—“

Snape slammed a hand down onto the table. The loud thwack sent Harry cowering back in his chair, his muscles taut and his heart hammering. “Merlin’s sake!” the man hissed. “Why are you lying to me? Stop fighting me and give me a straight answer!”

Harry had to swallow hard and sit on his hands slightly before he could answer. Even with his weight bearing down on them, his hands still felt as though they were trembling. “Sorry, sir,” he stammered, wishing his voice didn’t sound so pathetic. “ ‘M just upset you won’t let me go home. Sorry.”

Snape just stared at him, eyes wide with disbelief, for a few seconds. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and perfectly level. He sounded as if he were speaking to a wounded animal, trying to coax it from its hiding place. “You know that I will not hurt you, don’t you, Harry?”

Harry swallowed again before managing to force out, “Don’t call me that.”

Snape’s breath came out in a great, irritated whoosh. “I won’t hurt you,” he said solemnly, ignoring Harry’s comment entirely. “I _won’t_. And I am specifically asking you to tell me why you are angry. I _want_ to hear it. I will not get upset regardless of what you say, even if I disagree with you. So please tell me.”

“Sir, I really don’t want to—“

“ _Tell me_.” More forceful this time.

“There’s nothing to say!” Harry cried, panicking. God, Snape was going to force him to get himself into trouble, and then he would _really_ go off. And Snape was a wizard with a whole arsenal of nasty curses at his disposal, and even if Harry had his wand now, he knew that he couldn’t fend off a fully-trained, fully-competent wizard like Snape for very long.

“There is plenty to say, I’d wager! Merlin, I _know_ I’ve treated you with nothing but contempt ever since you came here, even though you were merely a victim of circumstance! I’ve tried to do better since then, but that, of course, can in no way make up for past wrongs. So speak. Let us get a full accounting of where you and I stand.”

Harry could not believe that Snape had as much as admitted that he’d been wrong twice now. Nor that he was practically demanding that Harry throw a bunch of accusations at him. None of it seemed possible.

He still knew better than to open his mouth. It would only get him into trouble, even if Snape was inviting it. It was like when Dudley used to offer to let Harry get in his “free shot”, claiming that it was only right after all the times that he’d picked on Harry.

Harry had caught onto that game quickly. It only took being locked in the cupboard for a week for daring to raise a hand to precious Diddykins before he vowed to never take anything for free from anyone, ever. Not from people who hated him, at least.

“I’d rather not, sir,” Harry said as politely as possible.

“Well, I am not giving you a choice!” Snape fired back, his voice sharp. Then he seemingly reined in his temper once more. “One thing. Tell me one thing I have done to upset you.”

“Veritaserum,” Harry blurted out before he could stop himself. Then he braced himself for the nasty retort, that he’d not been _forced_ , that it had been offered to him and that he had willingly downed it. And then Harry wouldn’t be able to hold himself in check, would he? Because that had been one of the single most miserable experiences of his life. Which was saying a lot, considering all the things he had experienced in his short life.

“Veritaserum,” Snape repeated calmly. “What about the Veritaserum?”

“What do you think?” Harry cried. He knew full well that he was throwing caution to the wind, but he didn’t care. The nerve of the man, to ask _what about_ subjecting him to truth serum and interrogating him about his darkest secrets had been wrong. “I agreed to it so you could ask me about the burglary, not—not anything else. But you didn’t care, did you? Oh, no, the opportunity to humiliate Harry Potter was too great to pass up. You wouldn’t let me leave, even after I asked… but I suppose that’s what I get, eh? No, don’t tell me. If I’m stupid enough to agree to it in the first place, I deserve to have my every last shred of privacy violated, right? Well, now at least you have plenty to laugh at, you and your Slytherins. As if you never had enough before. But I can hear it now, all the cracks about Harry Potter, kicked around by mere Muggles, such a poor wizard that he couldn’t even keep his relatives from treating him like their personal House Elf—“

“Oh, yes,” Snape interrupted, the tone of his voice positively glacial. “We do enjoy a good laugh about child abuse, depraved as we are. We find it simply hilarious—“  
  


“I wasn’t abused!” Harry shouted, rising yet again from his seat. His whole body was trembling with rage. How dare the man sit there and pretend he was offended when _he_ had dragged all that information out of Harry, as if he had _any_ right to do such a thing.

“Oh?” Snape snarled, rising in kind and stalking around the side of the table to tower over Harry. “What would you call it, then? Would you say that to a friend who told you they spent their childhood begging for scraps and being framed for crimes and hoping that a sibling didn’t progress as far as _breaking bones_? Oh, but he did, didn’t he? Really, did you expect I wouldn’t be able to find out? Yes, would you tell Mr. Weasley that it wasn’t _abuse_ since the adults were not in fact the ones physically beating him, only a brother?”

“That’s different—“

“Oh, do tell, Potter. It’s different how?”

“It doesn’t matter, it just is! And it’s done now, so—“

“Yes,” Snape hissed, “sound logic, that. It just _is_. And such an experience could not possibly have lasting repercussions, of course, so certainly we should just ignore the fact that you have been severely mistreated for the past decade and a half. You have no _idea_ —“

“Like you even care—“

“Of course I do!” Snape spat, the tone of his voice frightening enough to cause Harry to stumble back a few steps.

“Look,” Harry stammered uncertainly, keeping his eyes from Snape’s face. He didn’t like the fury that had suddenly contorted that expression. Not that the sight of the man’s heaving chest was much better. “I’m not going to embarrass you or anything, all right? I’m not mentally unstable or anything. It’s done, and you won’t even let me go back to them, so I don’t see any point in dwelling on it. And it wasn’t even that bad, all right? Plenty have it worse—“

“Just because other victims have suffered more does not mean that what you have been through is trivial,” Snape began calmly. Harry could see that the man’s hands were still clenched at his sides, though, so he decided not to put too much stock in his sudden change in tone.

Harry drew in a deep breath. He needed to get himself under control, before he pushed Snape over the edge and got himself into real trouble. “I’m not a victim of—of anything. Maybe I’ve had it worse off than others, but that’s just the way things are. I survived it. So just stop calling it _that_ , because it wasn’t even close.”

“Not putting a name to it does not change what it was. And you are a victim of—“

“I’m not, and I don’t know why in the hell you keep insisting that I am! And that’s beside the point, anyway!” Harry added angrily, suddenly realizing he’d been derailed. “You had no right to ask me about any of that—“

“I had every right,” Snape bit out, his eyes flashing angrily. “I regret that it came to truth serum, but you never would have told me half as much as you did—“

“You had _no right!_ ” Harry shouted over top of Snape, his hand tightening over his wand as he spoke. But Merlin, he wanted to hex the man into oblivion. To even _suggest_ that what he’d done was justified somehow…. “I never agreed to answer questions about them! You said—you said you would ask about the burglary, nothing else. You _lied_ to me, just so you could satisfy your curiosity! If I didn’t want to talk about it, that was _my_ choice, and you took it away from me! And for _nothing,_ too. Just to learn all the nasty details about Harry Potter’s home life. Well, now you have them, all the answers about how wonderful it is to be me. As if anything could be worse than being falsely accused, then landed here with you—no, you had to make sure that I felt as humiliated and unhappy as possible.” Harry turned violently from Snape.

He couldn’t do this. He needed space. He needed to breathe.

“It was not my intention to humiliate you—“

“Well, you did a bang-up job anyway,” Harry growled. He made to storm out of the room, but a restraining hand on his shoulder held him back.

“I apologize.”

Those words managed to freeze Harry in his tracks. He whipped around to face Snape, to see if the man was still scowling and sour, a sure sign that Harry had only dreamed up those words.

Snape was staring at Harry, his expression too smooth, his dark eyes intense with some unnamed, unidentifiable emotion. “I apologize that I did not believe you. I apologize that I have allowed myself to be so blinded for these past few years. I apologize for failing to admit my faults much sooner. And I apologize for some of the inexcusably cruel things I have said and done.

“But Harry, I will not apologize for asking those questions. They needed to be answered. Somebody needed to know how bad things have been. More than that, somebody needed to step in and take care of things long ago, and Albus and I and many others have failed you in that respect. Too, I am sorry for that. But I will not apologize for asking about your home life.”

Harry tried to twist out of Snape’s grip, but the man had ahold of him too tightly. “Don’t call me Harry—“

“It is your name, and I will use it.”

“Of course you will! Because God forbid you should actually care what _I_ want—“

“You’re right on that account,” Snape informed him, his voice low and steady. “I don’t give a damn about what you want. I will give you what you _need_ , always.”

Harry redoubled his efforts to get away. He needed out now. The air was too thick; it was choking him. And his stomach… it felt as though he’d swallowed a plateful of Hagrid’s rock cakes. “You don’t know the first thing about what I need—“

“I know that the _last_ thing that you need is to go on pretending that everything is fine, that you haven’t been affected. The wounds run deep, and if you leave them, if you pretend they do not exist, they will fester.”

“For the last time, I’m not hurt, I’m not wounded, I’m not unstable! _You_ decided to ask those damned questions, and if you don’t like the answers, well, just deal with it! So I’m not pampered and spoiled at home like you always thought. Accept it, okay? And stop trying to turn me into some weak, bullied, helpless little orphan who’s been _wounded_ , because I’m not—“

“Why do you think I asked those questions?” Snape cut in suddenly, his voice sharp again.

“You thought the Veritaserum was going to make me spill about how great and wonderful I had it at home, so you could prove that—that my cowed little orphan act was all a lie, and that I was desperate for attention—“

“Merlin preserve me. You believe I asked such specific questions while fishing for general information about your home life? Truly?”

Harry tried to recall what Snape actually _had_ asked him. He’d done his best ever since then to pretend that night had never happened, so it wasn’t much of a surprise to him when he could scarcely recall a single detail. “Well, you thought I was putting on a cowed little orphan act to get attention—“

“For the first two days!” Snape interjected angrily. “You think it wasn’t apparent to me after that, after your refusal to eat and those comments about how a few days without food was nothing—you think that did not raise any alarm bells? Do you think me dense, Potter?”

“When it comes to me?” Harry countered, feeling just as angry. “Yes, I do. But I don’t care. At all. I don’t care that you thought I was spoiled, or that I would rob an old woman for no reason. I don’t care if you think I’m arrogant and stupid and clueless. And I don’t care if you changed your mind, either. Your opinion means nothing. So just—just keep it to yourself, so we can get through the summer—“

“This isn’t about something as trivial as my _opinion_ of you,” Snape hissed, his hand tightening further on Harry’s shoulder. “Though you should know that it has changed drastically. I _took advantage_ , as you say, for the sole purpose of determining how bad things have been for you. I should not have relied exclusively on Veritaserum to find the unvarnished truth, that I readily admit, but given our relationship, and your distinct lack of trusted adults—“

“I have Sirius!”

“So you will tell your godfather about all of this?” There was a tangle of emotions in that question that Harry couldn’t quite identify. Something about the phrasing and tone—breathy, too quick, too sharp—made his gut twist uncomfortably.

Harry looked away. “No. I’m not speaking to him.”

“Foolish, but not the focus of today’s discussion.” Snape released him. “The point that you need to understand is that I had no intentions of humiliating you when I asked those questions. And if you found it difficult to speak about your experiences with your relatives, I apologize. But there is nothing to feel humiliated _about_ , you understand—“

“Oh no?” Harry growled, wishing desperately that his gaze alone could burn the man. “You’re going to tell me that you don’t find it at all funny that they treated me like a House Elf all my life? That the great Harry Potter grew up in a little cupboard, helpless against a bunch of magicless Muggles? It must have been great for you, finding out that I’m as weak you always thought I was—“

“You are not weak,” Snape cut him off, his words ringing like steel. “Nor have I ever believed that to be one of your faults. And as for the thought of deriving any pleasure from what you have suffered—“

“I don’t need your pity, either,” Harry snarled. “And I don’t even believe in it. I—I don’t know what your game is, but—“

“Ah. I’m inhuman. Or so thoroughly twisted that I am incapable of the slightest bit of compassion or remorse, or, Merlin forbid, empathy.”

Snape spoke calmly, the words mild. But they struck Harry har all the same, because he did see what he’d been doing. He’d built Snape in his mind into some kind of demon who lived to torment him.

Not that he hadn’t fulfilled that role in the past, and then some.

Maybe it was a bit much to believe that Snape was—well, so _twisted_ , as he’d put it, that he really would only find pleasure in the thought of Harry suffering. And the man had admitted multiple times now that he’d been wrong about Harry, that his opinion had shifted. Drastically, he’d said.

But it boiled down to trust, and for Snape, who’d been such a source of misery, Harry had none. So when the Potions Master said that he only had Harry’s best interests in mind, well…. Harry was more inclined to assume that there was an ulterior motive, or some deep game involved. That Snape might be setting him up, even, as his relatives had done, all the better to break him later.

“I don’t want your _compassion_ or your _empathy_ ,” Harry mumbled petulantly. “I already said that. I just want to be left alone—“

“And I have already said that I care nothing for what you want, only for what you need. And what you need is stability and support, whether you can admit it or not. And if you are to have either, we need to have some amount of trust between us.”

“Well, I don’t trust you at all,” Harry announced. “So—“

“So,” Snape interrupted smoothly, “I would like you to tell me why, so that we can determine how I can make amends, so that we might move past this. Yes?”

He snorted. “If you don’t know why, then I can’t help you.”

Snape rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Very well, let me take an educated guess. I have treated you abominably over the years because I made baseless assumptions about you. More recently, I assumed you guilty of a crime that you did not commit, punished you for that crime, and then took advantage of your imbibition of truth serum in order to gain answers about personal, private matters that you did not wish to disclose. Have I missed anything?”

“You’re forcing me to stay here,” Harry grumbled, “even though you have _no right_ , just because you feel guilty now about all that stuff. You think you’re doing me a favor, saving me from my horrible relatives, but I’m not some useless child. I can handle them—”

“It’s not a matter of what you _can_ handle, or what you _can_ survive,” Snape interjected quietly, his voice low and fervent. “It is a matter of what you _should not have to_ endure. But yes, you are right—I’ve made living arrangements for you and assumed guardianship without consulting you.” Snape paused for a moment, seemingly to swallow thickly—probably the bitter taste of crow, considering his next words. “I… I _am_ sorry for my failings in this. I did not ask for your version of events before I punished you. I am responsible for the depth of your mistrust. And therefore it is my fault, too, that you had to be tricked into taking truth serum—”

“Ha,” Harry barked. “You didn’t trick me. You said, ‘here, Potter, I want answers about the burglary. Drink up if you want me to believe you.’ Pretty straightforward, if you ask me—”

“I goaded you. You have consistently harmed yourself ever since I’ve brought you here in order to prove me wrong. I declared I didn’t believe you could do without a meal, and you responded by starving yourself for three days. I declared that you were lazy and useless and you worked your fingers to the bone on your projects, going above and beyond what I, or anyone, could expect from someone your age.

“You hated me and would not open up, I knew, if I simply approached you. I knew that something was deeply wrong. I knew that if I offered you the Veritaserum, you would jump at the chance to definitively prove that you were innocent—”

“For God’s sake,” Harry spat, “you didn’t think I was _innocent_! Don’t pretend that you knew all along, because you damned well did not—”

“I suspected that you were coerced to some degree,” Snape clarified, running a hand through his hair as he spoke. “I suspected that things were not so cut and dry, and that you would have a case for lesser charges, or for things being dropped entirely. I did not anticipate such a degree of incompetence in those worthless Muggles, nor your cousin’s utter depravity to be such that he would baldly commit a crime and declare you the actual culprit.”

“It still wasn’t right, using it like you did,” Harry growled.

Snape turned slightly toward the kitchen, so that his gaze was hidden. “Perhaps. But it was the only way to find out the truth about your relatives.”

Harry scoffed. “Right, how would you know? You barely know me—”

“I know myself, though.” Snape turned further, so that he was angled away from Harry, and drew his arms tightly over his chest. His voice grew even softer then, so that Harry could only just catch the words. “And at your age, having suffered what we have suffered, trust is not something we offer readily. And the trust to speak of _those_ things… it would take more than a lifetime for anyone to earn it. At your age, in your position… nothing short of Veritaserum would have gotten me speaking about my own home life.”

Harry just stared for a moment. No. Snape was—he was lying. Trying to make Harry feel like he had something on Snape too, when it was all just lies. Because Snape would never just—just _admit_ that he had something in common with Harry Potter, let alone something this… unsavory.

“I told myself it wasn’t abuse, you know,” Snape continued quietly, his gaze still averted. “Just like you. Never mind that I had physical scars that said otherwise. Still have them, in fact.” At this, Snape turned back to Harry, and there was something about the exhaustion etched into the lines of his face that stopped Harry’s caustic remark in his throat. “I told myself it was my own fault for not defending myself against my worthless, drunk Muggle father. I told myself that I could have stopped it, but I’d been too weak.”

Harry’s lips worked at sounds, but he couldn’t form coherent words. Snape was lying, right? Still lying. He was just toying with Harry’s mind.

“I wouldn’t have admitted it at the time,” Snape said, “but in hindsight I would have given anything for someone to step in. I would have been resentful, I know. I never would have trusted their intentions because I’d learned early on not to rely on adults. I imagine it is the same for you, only doubly so because we have started out at odds, with an extreme deficit of trust and goodwill.”

“So I’ll thank you later, is that it?” Harry whipped out.

Snape’s lips twisted in a bitter smile. “Oh, I doubt it. I know that trust and hatred are not mutually exclusive, and I fully expect you’ll hate me for a good while yet. Not that you are not fully justified.” Snape sighed. “But I need you to trust that I will act in your best interests. That I understand now—to some extent—what you have suffered, and will make every effort to mitigate that damage. That I have every intention of fulfilling my role as guardian, that your needs will be met, that you are safe here.”

Harry folded his arms over his chest and scowled down at the floor. He didn’t like this. Snape was—well, giving Harry permission to hate him. Was saying that it was _fully justified_. Snape didn’t say things like that. And then all that other crap—best interests and all that. He still didn’t know what Snape was getting at. “Listen, I know you’re going to feed me and let me sleep in a bed and all that stuff, all right? And I’m pretty positive that if you were going to hand me over to Vol—to _him_ —you’d have done it by now. All that other stuff, like watching me sleep and all—you don’t have to bother with it. I don’t need it. So let’s leave it at that.”

“You trust me to see to your basic needs, and to protect you,” Snape summarized, a slight question in his tone.

“Yeah.”

“But not to see to your emotional needs—”

“I don’t _have_ emotional needs!”

A pause. Then Snape spoke quietly, “We all have emotional needs, Harry.”

“Sure. And I’m sure you’ll enjoy detailing all of mine to your little snakes. No offense, sir, but I’m not so stupid as to literally hand you weapons to use against me.”

“Why is it,” Snape demanded, his tone regaining something of an edge, “that you believe I would be so vile as to do such a thing? I have been less than fair, I know, but _never_ have I come even close to doing what you are suggesting—”

“You _hate_ me,” Harry cut in angrily. “I don’t care what you say or how much you insist you don’t. You do, or you will just as soon as you’ve gotten over feeling sorry for me. You’ll think up some justification, or decide I was playing you for sympathy all along. And I’m not going to pretend otherwise.”

“Are you going to tell your little Gryffindor cronies all about my abusive father?” Snape inquired sharply, his tone turning frosty.

Harry blanched. That was an unexpected turn. “N-no, sir, I—”

“Why not?”

 _They wouldn’t believe me_. No, that was stupid. Of course they would. _I don’t believe your father was abusive_. But that would be calling Snape a liar to his face, wouldn’t it? And… well… Snape didn’t actually lie much. Even when making his promise about the questions he’d asked while Harry was under Veritaserum he hadn’t told an outright lie, as he’d pointed out. He’d just given an ambiguous answer. And he liked to insist on that point, as if it really mattered.

But why in the hell had he admitted anything about his father to Harry? And with no provocation, too?

No. That was too much to think about just now.

Harry knew he wouldn’t say a word about Snape’s father, even if he hated the man and wanted to see him suffer the way he’d made Harry suffer. Talking about a thing like that, using it as a weapon….

“Because it’s just… wrong… to do that,” he explained in a near-whisper.

“Ah, so the sainted Gryffindor can have a stellar moral compass, but someone such as myself must have no compunctions about using such information against his student and ward.”

Harry flushed. “You love humiliating me. What, I’m supposed to believe that you’ve suddenly developed boundaries? Oh, but wait, you suddenly don’t hate me for _no apparent reason—_ ”

“I never knew you well enough to hate you.”

“Hah.” Harry dug his nails into the flesh of his palm. “It sure seemed like you did. I’d hate to see how you’d treat someone you do know well enough to hate. Cruciatus on sight? Or maybe you go straight for Avada Kedavra—”

“I don’t deny that I treated you unacceptably,” Snape ground out, cutting him off. “I’ve said that I was wrong. I’ve apologized. I do not intend to repeat the mistake. Shall I offer up a pound of flesh as well?”

Harry glared at the man and shifted a bit closer to the opposite wall. His nails were still biting into his skin, the dull pain the only thing keeping him from tumbling over the edge into completely unhinged screaming and cursing. “Saying sorry doesn’t magically make it better—”

“As I have already acknowledged,” Snape interrupted, the agitation in his tone rising. “I am not asking you to forgive me, nor am I expecting it. I am only asking you to believe that I have a shred of basic human decency.”

Harry watched Snape warily for a moment, studying the outraged lines of his face, the stiffness of his posture. He knew the man wasn’t evil, per se. Not totally, at least. He knew that Snape reported to Dumbledore, and that he was resuming his place amongst the Death Eaters to spy, even at the risk of his own life. Too, he knew that Snape had saved him on more than one occasion, and once at risk of great bodily harm—because yes, in retrospect, Harry could acknowledge that Snape had placed himself between Harry and a fully-grown, mindless werewolf. And that after Harry, Hermione, and Ron had hexed him.

So could he trust that the man’s sense of duty and right and wrong extended to this? Though he’d never seemed bothered before when he’d mercilessly hounded Harry for any number of his invented flaws. He’d been a vicious, unrepentant bully. So what was to say that this fodder for taunts and snide remarks would be off limits?

And why not assume the worst? Why not prepare himself for the knowledge to become public, to be splashed across the Prophet and every other wizarding publication in existence? Optimism only led to bitter disappointment and endless frustration. Harry knew that from experience.

“I’m not going to believe for a second that you want to help me.” Harry shoved off of the wall and turned to head up the stairs, suddenly feeling as though he couldn’t take another moment of Snape’s company.

“Harry.”

Funny how much power Snape seemed to gain over him just by switching to his given name. Harry felt himself freezing and then, involuntarily, turning back to face his professor.

Snape’s black eyes bored into him, blazing with some intense purpose. The force of that look made his stomach quiver slightly. “I _will_ help you. Whether you can believe it or not, whether you wish it or not, whether you accept it or not, I _will_ do all I can for you.”

“Just leave me alone.” And with that Harry strode out, intent on locking himself in his room. He wasn’t fleeing, he told himself, just reestablishing distance. Just giving himself time to think.

Those words lingered with him, though. The sincerity that he imagined there. The confidence. The absolute lack of malice. Harry didn’t want to believe it at all. Snape was just playing some twisted game with him.

But things were not adding up. Snape’s apologies, the ones he’d brushed off, those came floating back to him and refused to leave. Snape wouldn’t bother apologizing, Harry knew, unless he meant it. And the man couldn’t possibly be setting up some elaborate scheme to gain Harry’s trust, then shatter him by pushing him away and scorning him. Though Harry wished he could keep believing that the Potions Master was that twisted and nefarious.

There were too many little things, too, things he desperately wished to discount but no longer could ignore.

Especially after the Veritaserum, which he was beginning to realize marked the beginning of Snape’s drastic change in behavior. Harry recalled waking up the morning after that awful night, and not on the floor. He’d justified it at the time, thinking he’d done it for himself. That his powers had been protecting him as they’d always done. But now….

After everything, of course he couldn’t continue to believe that he’d magicked himself into bed, summoned bed linens from the armoire, changed his own clothes into pajamas, removed his own glasses…. Accidental magic was not that delicate. Snape….

God. Snape had picked him up off the floor and made up his bed, then tucked him in, hadn’t he? Snape had been checking in on him last night to see that he was sleeping well. Snape had started fixing up parts of the house to make Harry more comfortable.

Harry curled up by the window in his favorite spot, where the bed sheltered him from the doorway behind him. Chin rested against his knees, arms wrapped tightly over the front of his folded legs to keep them in place, he desperately tried to think.

He wanted things to go back to normal. Sure, that was worse, he knew. Snape was, for the moment, treating him infinitely better than the Dursleys ever would. But he’d never felt this out-of-sorts with the Dursleys. He’d always known where he stood with them.

Here…. Snape said he was done being an utter arse to Harry, but if he changed his mind in the middle of the night there was nothing to stop him from returning to old habits. And that would shatter Harry.

Snape was calling him _Harry_ now. Mostly. He hated that. He hated even more the way the man had offhandedly suggested that Harry call him _Severus_ , as if dear old _Severus_ wouldn’t flay him alive for actually making such a presumption. Harry couldn’t imagine what had possessed the man to say something so ludicrous in the first place.

A knock startled Harry from his whirling thoughts. The door behind him cracked open slightly. Harry twisted around to see what Snape could possibly want now.

Peering over the top of the bed, he saw that the man in question had stuck his head into the room. His dark eyes roved over the space until they met Harry’s. His mouth tightened, but he did not say anything about Harry’s position. Instead, he said quietly, “I brought your breakfast. I trust you remember our agreement?”

Three meals a day, to Snape’s satisfaction, or the man would “take matters into his own hands”. Harry was highly unlikely to forget that particular threat.

But that wasn’t the most salient thing in Harry’s mind. He was much more interested in analyzing what the man was doing up here now.

Snape was letting him eat up here. Wasn’t insisting he go back downstairs and sit at the table where he could be stuck to his chair like some delinquent child, where he would be under Snape’s unrelenting scrutiny.

“Yeah… yes, sir.”

Snape pushed the door the rest of the way open and entered—though no more than a few feet or so, Harry noted. He was carrying a tray laden with the aforementioned breakfast, and a decent assortment it was. Apparently Snape had cooked eggs and bacon….

Wordlessly, he settled the tray onto Harry’s desk. Or rather, the desk Harry was using.

“I really do prefer that you call me Severus.” The comment was quiet, almost bland, and as soon as he’d uttered it Snape was retreating once more. Giving Harry space? It felt like it, certainly. But since when was Snape considerate?

Harry flinched slightly as the latching of the door behind Snape coincided with his realization of the answer to that question. Since that night, he thought. Since that awful night of too many questions. At first Harry had thought it was just pity, but Snape never looked at him that way. No secretive sad looks, no shaking his head, no coddling.

He just… was civil. Respectful, even. Vigilant, too, when it came to his basic obligations to Harry. Automatically, Harry touched a hand to the new fabric of his long-sleeved t-shirt.

Snape had endured clothes shopping for Harry’s sake. God, his own blood relatives had never done as much. Had never even recognized that Harry’s desire to have decent clothing, even purchased at his own expense, was worth any kind of consideration. Hell, it wasn’t as if they’d ever bothered to take him to get his school supplies, even. Not even when he was in primary, for God’s sake.

But Snape had insisted that it all be purchased and accounted for early. Had promised, too, that Harry could accompany his friends later in the summer, that their trip did not preclude outings with Hermione and Ron. Had acted as if forbidding Harry to go on such an excursion hadn’t even crossed his mind.

Most prominent in his mind now, though, was the last bit of personal information that Snape had disclosed. Saying that he knew what it was to—well, to be hated by family. To be hurt by them, even. The confession that Snape had thought it necessary to use truth serum because of his own experience of reluctance to speak about his home life. That Harry had initially shoved aside as a lie, or a manipulation, but now whenever he tried to disregard it the whole thought came roaring back.

Harry could bring himself to think of _Snape_ and _trust_ in the same sentence. Yet… yet Snape had trusted him enough to share something of his childhood, no promises extracted from Harry about never telling another soul. For all he knew, Harry would spread the rumor around Gryffindor Tower the instant he returned in the fall.

Not that Harry would. It was just as he’d told Snape: the very thought of it was _wrong_ and made his stomach twist something awful.

Snape didn’t hate him. He trusted Harry enough to share that intensely personal tidbit. He wanted Harry to call him _Severus_. The man had promised to take care of Harry. Had said that he didn’t care if Harry hated him, that he expected it, that he only needed Harry to trust that he wouldn’t be mistreated here.

Harry hugged his arms around his legs and buried his head against his knees. It was too much, all of it. He felt like he was in freefall with no end in sight. Like he was just waiting to smash to bits against the ground. Too many questions, too few answers, and no one but Snape to guide him.

Well, apart from Ron and Hermione. But they were just kids, Harry was quickly realizing, all of them. For all they’d been through, they couldn’t help him stare down what lay ahead. Finding a new guardian, figuring out how to deal with a wizarding world that had decided every other word out of his mouth was a falsehood. Voldemort lurking out there, gathering strength and followers with every passing day. Feeling alone and hunted and so damned guilty that he could hardly stand it some days.

Harry swallowed thickly before scrabbling over to his trunk to dig out his album, glad that he hadn’t sent it off just yet.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snape schedules a playdate, but only because Harry asks

Harry spent the morning in his room, trying his best to distract himself and failing miserably at it. Snape’s words kept drifting back to him, and with them anxieties about all the things that Snape now knew but hadn’t mentioned.

Sure, he’d gotten an earful about Harry’s home life from Mrs. Applewhite, but that was nothing given what he’d likely gleaned directly from the Dursley’s minds. The more he thought on that, on what had driven Snape to make declarations about _emotional need_ and _helping Harry_ and dealing with _festering wounds_ , the tighter the knots in his stomach grew.

For a while, Harry managed to lose himself looking over pictures of his parents. It was easier to imagine them with something to go off of, and childish though it might have been, he needed to imagine them. Needed to immerse himself in the fantasy he’d had as a child of their home life, the place he’d retreated to deep in his own mind when life at Privet Drive had been too much. For a time he was able to stay there, lost in invented words of comfort and commiseration. His mother would hug him close and tell him that it was unfair, every last bit of this summer, and his father would urge him to stay strong.

Of course, that exercise in imagination invariably led him to think of the only _real_ interaction he’d had with his parents, the few brief, utterly panicked moments when they’d come flying out of Voldemort’s wand and offered to cover for him so that he could run away and not die.

The pain of contemplating that was enough to have him searching for anything to wrap the album in. Hedwig had watched in seeming curiosity as he’d torn through his trunk in search of anything that might work, only to give up, deciding that he’d just look downstairs sometime. Snape had to have something lying around that would do. And since the man had already vowed to _help Harry however he could_ , he supposed that a bit of spare paper wouldn’t be too much to ask for.

He’d just have to be careful enough to come up with a good lie if Snape decided to pry into what he might be sending off.

He ended up spending most of his time before lunch with Hedwig, chatting quietly with her, absently stroking her head. A few times he read through the replies he’d gotten from Ron and Hermione. Neither had been reassured when he’d carefully confirmed that he was with Snape, and both had promised to keep pushing to see him sooner rather than later. “Hopefully before your birthday,” Ron had written, though both his friends’ tones had been less than hopeful. They’d both apologized that they couldn’t say more, citing how unsafe it was to say too much through letters.

Harry hated that, but he could respect it, too.

Sometime near midday he finally decided that he’d best go downstairs. He couldn’t avoid Snape forever. Especially come lunchtime, when the man would likely come hunt him down and drag him to the table.

So he gathered all his dirty dishes onto the breakfast tray Snape had brought up and, after stroking Hedwig’s feathered breast one last time, he forged head, bracing himself for whatever lay outside his door. He made it down to the kitchen without crossing the potions master, and seeing that the sink was clean, he decided to do the washing up for himself. Doing the dishes had never been something he’d minded too much. It was, in its own way, soothing.

He was just transferring the last of the dishes to the wire drying rack when he was startled nearly out of his skin.

“You should have left those for me.”

Harry whipped around, pulse racing, to find Snape standing in the back of the room, arms folded tightly over his chest. He was still dressed in his casual clothes, his jumper today light gray spackled with black. He was frowning slightly, his eyes on the sink.

Harry forced himself to take a deep breath. “I don’t mind doing them.”

“I, however, do mind you doing them.” Snape’s frown grew slightly troubled. “You have already done enough chores for one lifetime, in my opinion.”

Those words hit Harry right in the gut, taking the breath from his lungs. He didn’t know what it was, exactly—the reference to his awful childhood that made it all the more real? The fact that Severus Snape, of all people, seemed inclined to coddle Harry now?

It took him a moment to recover enough to reply. “I like doing some things,” he defended himself, skirting the issue of his homelife altogether. “It keeps me busy.”

“Hm.” Snape drifted closer to Harry, over to the dripping dishes. “If you insist on burdening yourself with unnecessary chores, I would suggest you at least use it as an opportunity to practice your spellwork.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest, only to be cut short by Snape.

“I know you fear breaking the law, and I would like to reassure you _yet again_ that you’ve nothing to fear from that quarter. I hardly believe causing more trouble for you with the Ministry would benefit anyone.” Snape drew his own wand and twirled it at the dishes, which dried instantly and began lazily floating back toward their cupboards. “But you will do as you will.”

“It’s just not worth risking it,” Harry mumbled evasively, avoiding Snape’s piercing gaze as best he could.

Snape did not reply to that. Instead he made his way over to the fridge. “What do you fancy for lunch?”

 _Fancy_? Had Snape really used that word? But the impatient glance he received from the man told him that yes, he probably had used that word.

“Doesn’t matter—”

“Harry.”

Again, the sound of his name rang out like a thunderclap, seemingly casting a spell over Harry. Harry reluctantly dragged his gaze back to Snape.

“Humor me.”

A simple command. Not so simple, though, when Harry tried to force himself to obey. What did Snape even keep in the house? “Um… I meant it when I said I’d be fine with a sandwich—”

“What kind, then?” Snape prompted, an impatient undercurrent to the question.

“Why are you being so—so weird about this?” Harry burst out. “I said I don’t care, that I’m not picky. Isn’t that enough? Why do you have to—”

“Because, you foolish boy, I am trying to demonstrate that your needs and wants will be met, and as I can see you entrusting me with precious little else, your food preferences will have to suffice for the time being!”

Harry flinched back a little from the sheer irritation in Snape’s tone. Suddenly he sensed that he’d opened a flood gate, and he was not sure at all about what would now come pouring out.

“You’ve yet to make even a basic inquiry about seeing your friends—and no, I do not count your pleading to be removed to their care as a request to see them. I’m certain you realize that your sleep disturbances can at least be alleviated by a potion, which I _might_ have on hand, _given my profession_ , yet you have not even hinted at a desire for a remedy. You could not even address your need for new clothing directly! You are fortunate I am able to read between the lines, Potter, because very few people are so skilled!”

For a moment Harry couldn’t figure out what in the bloody hell Snape was talking about, seeing as he’d never so much as brought up a desire to shop for clothes. And then he remembered.

After the trial, when he’d tried to tactfully bring up paying Snape back, the man had regretfully told him that it wouldn’t be possible that day. Had mentioned shopping for school supplies. And where had they gone the next day? And without Harry retrieving the money he needed to square up his debt, too.

Snape had thought Harry had been asking about clothes, likely his mind still on the over-sized shirt he’d fixed for Harry that morning, and the tie he’d lent him. Harry flushed a little remembering that whole scene—not only shrinking back from Snape, but also the humiliation of having the man fix his oversized hand-me-downs.

Snape hadn’t finished with his rant, though, it seemed. “That, of course, is not even mentioning the fact that you slept in a pile of your own clothing for Merlin knows how many days, as if you were a common rat making a nest, rather than asking for something as basic as bedding.”

That was too much for Harry to abide. “Well, I don’t give a damn what you think of me! Didn’t I make that clear? So go ahead, call me vermin—”

Harry didn’t quite manage to duck back fast enough when Snape swooped in and seized him by the shoulders. “I am saying no such thing,” he cut Harry off, his voice low and fervent. “I am saying the exact opposite. You are _not_ an unwelcome burden—”

“I sure as hell was when you first brought me here! You hated me, and don’t try to deny it!”

Snape sighed. “Even when I held you in contempt, Harry, even when I thought you to be an unrepentant felon… even then I would not have denied you food or bedding, or any basic comforts. I assumed you would simply make yourself at home… recall, I believed you to be quite arrogant. I was certain you would find everything you needed in the armoire, and I was not disposed to do you any favors like setting up your room for you. I have since… rectified my views, as I think you know.”

Harry tried to free himself from Snape’s grip, but the man didn’t seem ready to release him.

“My point is that you have yet to ask for anything—”

“I don’t need anything.” Harry tried to make his interjection as calm and reasonable as possible. If he started shouting again, he’d just come across as defensive. “That’s what I was trying to tell you this morning. I mean… listen, I’m pretty self-sufficient. And….” Damn it, he did not want to talk about any of this, especially not with Snape, but it was clear that the man wasn’t going to drop it. He was going to go right on harping about neglect and emotional needs and all that rubbish. “Okay, I can admit that the way the Dursleys treated me wasn’t great. But I know it, see? And I’ve hardly been with them over the past four years, just for the summers—and not even whole summers. So I’ve had plenty of time to get over it. I know you think it’s really messed me up or something, but the only reason I, er, didn’t ask you for stuff was… well, you’ve always hated me, and you were pretty peeved ever since you, uh, picked me up. I’m not like that with everyone.”

There, that had been the most calm and reasonable thing he’d ever said to Snape, hadn’t it? He was proud of himself.

That pride unraveled immediately, though, when Snape merely arched a brow. “No? Have you ever gone to an adult with an injury, Harry?”

Harry frowned, his brow knitting with confusion. He didn’t understand where this was going. “Yeah, loads of times. Madame Pomfrey—”

“Madame Pomfrey is a medical professional. I am talking about going to an adult with whom you have a personal bond when you’ve been injured.”

“Sure.” Harry searched through his memories for an example, and was unpleasantly surprised to find out that it was much more difficult than he’d thought it would be. He had a “personal bond” with—well, Lupin, for sure. Not much outside of Patronus lessons, and the connection to his father, of course. There was that time with he Dementors on the train… but he supposed Snape wouldn’t count that, since Harry hadn’t been the one to do the approaching.

Dumbledore had always cared for him and looked after him. So there had to have been a time… well, but he was the Headmaster, and a powerful wizard, and a busy man besides. So it was no wonder that he’d never gone to the man with a scraped knee or something similar.

Hagrid! How had he forgotten Hagrid? There had to have been one time, at least, when Harry had gone to the gamekeeper with something. There had been that time in second year, the infamous slug incident… but that had been Ron, not Harry. Had he been injured their first year, after the Forbidden Forest detention?

Something twisted in Harry’s stomach as he realized that Hagrid had never even checked in with Harry after that whole debacle. Hell, after encountering Quirrell-hosting-Voldemort drinking blood out in the forest, you would have thought that someone would want to make sure that Harry wasn’t scarred or anything. Not that he had been, of course.

Still, it would have been nice if someone had checked.

“An example, Mr. Potter?” Snape prompted, releasing Harry’s shoulders at last.

“I’m sure there was a time—”

“I severely doubt it.” And then, before Harry could register what had happened, Snape had caught Harry’s wrist in a vice grip and turned it palm-up for an examination. “You did not have that scar when I initially retrieved you from the detention facility.”

Harry looked and saw what Snape was talking about—that faint reddish-pink scar from where he’d cut his hand on glass in the yard. “Oh, that’s nothing—”

“It is a large, significant scar from an injury that I somehow missed.” Snape sounded chagrined at that, as if he could scarcely stand that his skills of observation had failed him. “What happened?”

Harry affected an overly-casual shrug. “Oh, nothing much. Just a little nick. I didn’t want you to think I was playing the martyr or anything. I took care of it—”

“How?” Now Snape’s jaw was clenched tightly, Harry could tell. That single word emerged from between grinding teeth. Even the man’s hand had tightened around his wrist so that the grip was borderline painful.

Harry tugged lightly at his hand, hoping that Snape would let him go. He didn’t budge, though. “Standard stuff—washed it out and put some antibiotic stuff from the cupboard on it—”

“There was no such thing stocked in the house!”

Harry flinched a little. “I found some in the cupboard. Upstairs, in the bathroom. It might have gone off a bit, but it seemed to do the trick.”

Snape was silent for an impossibly long moment, the only sound in the kitchen his heavy breaths. Finally he spoke. “I have been remiss in my care.”

Harry started to shake his head, but he fell still when Snape’s voice only grew sharper and more insistent.

“I have been inexcusably negligent of you, Mr. Potter, but that will not be the case going forward. I will be keeping a _very_ close eye on you from here on out so that we have no repeats of this incident. And you will _come to me immediately_ with any injury you acquire, no matter how small. I do not care if you nick your finger on a piece of parchment. You will still come to tell me so that I am aware. Am I understood?”

Harry was shaking his head before Snape had even finished talking. He could only imagine what that would be like—opening himself up to beratement and criticism for every small bump and scrape he acquired. “It wasn’t a big deal—”

“How did you acquire it?” And then, without waiting for a response, Snape whipped out his wand and, leveling the tip at Harry’s exposed palm, uttered, “ _Vulnus revelare_.” And with that a silvery mist shot out of his wand, coalescing into a ghostly, ethereal image of the very piece of broken glass that had cut Harry, the immaterial shard aligning so that it seemed embedded in his flesh once more. “How on earth did you get _glass_ in your hand?”

Harry grit his teeth. “I don’t know. I guess I must be stupid—”

“Don’t start that with me. I asked a simple question and I expect an answer.”

“Picking up the yard,” Harry hissed, yanking himself violently out of Snape’s grip. “I took care of it, though, and it’s healed now—”

“I am not disputing your ability to care for yourself.” Snape waved his wand and from some other part of the house summoned a small, squat jar that had been plugged with a large cork. Another flick of the man’s wand had the jar open, revealing a thick, yellowish paste, which Snape scooped out with a single finger. “I am informing you that it is no longer necessary, nor will it be permitted. Now give me your hand.”

“It’s healed—”

“And scarred.” Snape seized Harry’s wrist again with surprising strength and smeared the salve across the scar in question, the firm pressure of his finger massaging the substance into the skin. “That should help it to fade significantly.” Snape released Harry’s wrist then. “I don’t recall assigning you to pick up the yard.”

Harry shrugged, shuffling back a few steps out of Snape’s reach. The salve was warm and pleasant against his palm, not that he would ever admit such a thing, and now his mind was wandering down roads it shouldn’t, imagining what might happen if he applied that salve to a different scar. But curse scars were likely different, incurable. “I was already weeding.”

Snape closed his eyes lightly. “You concealed your injury when I called you into the house?”

“You would have thought I’d done it on purpose, and I didn’t—”

“I might have,” Snape agreed easily. Too easily. “I know better now, though. So you will not conceal anything again. You will come directly to me, and if I find you have withheld anything we will start doing nightly skin checks to ascertain that you are not hiding anything.”

Harry couldn’t hold back his mortification. “No, you can’t—that’s not fair—”

“I certainly can and will,” Snape returned sharply, his dark eyes snapping open to glare at Harry. “If you cannot come to me when you are hurt—”

“You want me to trust _you_ , but you don’t trust me at all! I haven’t done anything wrong and you still want to treat me like a criminal, with—with strip searches and everything! You don’t see the irony in that?”

And all at once the irritation drained out of Snape. “I don’t wish to treat you that way, no. Not at all, Harry. But I _will_ if it means keeping you safe.”

“From papercuts—”

“You would conceal much more than mere papercuts if I let you,” Snape replied quietly, his tone intense. “And I want to be clear on one point: I will not let you, not any longer. And until I can believe that you will come to me without prompting, you will be expected to inform me of every last bump, scrape, and bruise.”

“Fine,” Harry mumbled sullenly, not at all looking forward to the lectures or the black irritation that would surround those occasions.

Snape sighed heavily. “It is for your own good.”

“Right.”

Snape looked as though he had a great deal more to say on the topic, but ended up merely shaking his head. “You have yet to say anything on the matter of seeing your friends.”

Harry idly dragged a toe over the worn wooden floor. “Why would I? They’ve already asked about it and been told no.”

“You think I have no power in the matter?”

Harry shot an irritated glare up at the man. “Of course you do. And I’m guessing there’s some really good reason that I’ll have to wait until September—”

“On the contrary, I believe I just told you I’ve merely been waiting for you to initiate the conversation on the matter.”

Harry blinked a few times, feeling very stupid. “You—you’d let me see them?”

Snape made an irritated noise in the back of his throat. “Yes, Potter. Why else would I have brought it up?”

“To tell me ‘no’,” Harry shrugged.

“I know you believe I enjoy tormenting you, but I would not bring up the prospect merely to tell you ‘no’,” Snape informed him tightly. And then he waited, saying no more.

And it was then that Harry realized that the man was waiting for him to ask. To _request_ something. And it was stupid of him, because by then it was pretty clear that Snape probably intended to grant that request. But there was a part of him that didn’t want to ask, that didn’t want to risk being disappointed. That didn’t want to intimate any kind of faith in Snape, of all people.

Harry wanted to see Ron and Hermione, he really did. But it seemed that Snape was not about to offer, that he was intent on making Harry pose the question himself. It would be a simple thing to ask, wouldn’t it? Nothing strenuous. He just had to put it out there and Snape would probably concede.

It was the ‘probably’ part, though, that was such a stumbling block. He did not trust Snape, plain and simple. And he wasn’t going to set himself up for disappointment and ridicule.

Some part of him, though, some small part, wanted to be proved wrong. Some part of him believed that Snape didn’t want him to be miserable, not anymore. And that part told him to take the risk, to ask, to be dependent on someone else for one small moment.

He opened his mouth to frame the question, and at once a surge of apprehension washed over him. Why ask? Why bother? Snape hated him, no matter what the man said—or at least disliked him. Look how irritated he’d been just moments before. Any kindnesses Harry had witnessed had been driven by pity, and that pity could run out at any moment.

“Can I make my own sandwich?” he asked instead, because he at least was sure of the answer to that question.

“Ask.”

“I just did—”

“ _Ask_ ,” Snape repeated, the meaning of his demand unmistakable.

“You know what I want—”

“Perhaps,” Snape agreed, pacing forward until he towered just a foot from Harry. “But I will still hear you say it. Because, Mr. Potter, you will learn to vocalize your needs before the end of this summer. We can do this dance every day, ten times a day, until it sinks into your thick skull. Or you can _communicate_ with me. Now _ask_.”

Harry gritted his teeth. “Can I see my friends?” he forced out, not sure why it was so damned painful. Maybe because Snape hadn’t outright promised to say yes. Maybe because Harry figured now would be about the time that the bastard said something like, _if you had inquired earlier_ or _if you had not displayed such an attitude just now_.

“Yes. I will arrange for something tomorrow.”

Harry was floored. Simple—not snide at all. Straightforward and sincere. Part of him couldn’t believe that Snape had agreed so easily, and part of him was desperately fighting off the wave of gratitude that was rising in him. Snape wasn’t doing that much, he reminded himself.

But the man was. He was unyielding and dictatorial about it, sure, but he was actually looking after Harry. Healing his injuries, and insisting he eat, and asking for stupid, unnecessary things like Harry’s _preferences_ ….

“Tomorrow?” Harry echoed, still not quite able to wrap his mind around the answer.

“Yes, tomorrow. Had you asked earlier something might have been arranged for this afternoon, but now it is too late, so you will merely have to wait.”

Harry flushed deeply and returned his gaze to his socked feet. “You—you could have offered—”

“You are a teenager, not a toddler,” Snape retorted sharply. “You are perfectly capable of communicating your own desires without prompting. And you will do so going forward.”

“Or?” Harry couldn’t help but whisper.

“Or I will be forced to treat you like a toddler, regimenting your meals, your bedtimes, your free time—”

“Why?” Harry cried. “We’ve been over this. I’ve been eating! I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me, haven’t I? But you still want to punish me—”

“No, I do not wish to _punish_ you! I wish to see you properly cared for, but you’ve no idea how to _be_ cared for. And do not tell me again that you are self-sufficient, because I will not abide it. Now….” Snape turned sharply back to the fridge. “Lunch. You never told me what you would like.”

Fuming still, Harry bit out, “Steak. A porterhouse steak. And fries.”

Harry did not know what he expected, but it certainly wasn’t Snape merely glancing back at him, quirking an eyebrow, then drawing out a wand and murmuring, “ _Accio_ jacket.” A leather coat came flying out of one of the downstairs rooms; Snape caught it deftly and fished what appeared to be a worn wallet out of one of the pockets. “Are you prepared to go out?” he inquired levelly, tucking the wallet into a trouser pocket.

Harry just stared at the man dumbly. “What do you mean, ‘out’?”

“To a restaurant, obviously. I certainly do not have steak in the house, and if we are going out to purchase some, we’d might as well have it prepared, too.”

“I wasn’t serious—” Harry began, but Snape did not let him finish.

“I do not care. Besides, you could do with a few meals out.”

Harry did not know what to make of that statement. “I really have been eating. You know—”

“Yes, and that is not at all what I meant.” Snape turned back to full face him, his arms folded tightly over his chest, his dark eyes sharp and intent. “Given your past with your relatives, and our own difficult history, I am inclined to indulge you as often as possible. It will do you good to see that your requests, even frivolous ones, will be seen to….” Snape’s tone had turned musing at the end, and to Harry it sounded as though the man were ruminating over a potions problem rather than how to care for his erstwhile ward.

And Harry did not much care for that calculating attitude, nor to be taken out simply because Snape thought it would be emotionally fulfilling for him.

Which was stupid, because not too long ago he would have been ecstatic, wouldn’t he, to have anyone—even Snape—take him out for lunch simply because he wanted to go. Now, though, it felt too much like pity. Hell, it _was_ pity, wasn’t it?

“It’s too dangerous,” he muttered. “And I don’t want to leave the house.”

Snape studied him for a too-long moment, lips pressed tightly together. “It might do you some good. You’ve been kept confined for far too long.”

“I could always go play outside for a while,” he offered sarcastically.

Snape ignored the comment entirely. “Come along. There’s a pub that will do—”

“I said I don’t want to leave the house!” Harry burst out. “And I don’t need to be bribed, either! You—you can’t buy my trust.”

That, at least, got a reaction out of Snape. His face crumpled, and if Harry didn’t know better he’d say the man actually looked perturbed. “I am doing no such thing—”

“I want to eat in my—up in the bedroom. Can I? Or is that forbidden?”

Snape’s jaw went tight at that. “I prefer you remain down here.”

“So it is forbidden?” Harry clarified, heart beating hard in his chest. He needed away, now. He couldn’t describe what it was that was setting him so much on edge.

“I did not say that. If you wish, you are welcome to dine up there, though I strongly prefer that you do not—”

“What about making my own lunch? Is _that_ forbidden?”

“No.” This time the word was unmistakably a growl.

Before Snape could change his mind, Harry hurried over to the fridge and pulled out the leftover shepherd’s pie from the previous night, grabbed a fork from the drawer, and turned to flee back up the stairs.

“Don’t you want to heat it up?” he heard Snape call to him.

Harry paused briefly, just long enough to throw back over his shoulder, “It’s fine.” And with that he disappeared back into the bedroom, grateful once more for the space.

When he was on the floor again, wedged between bed and window, he was able to take full stock of just what it was that he was feeling. He set the plastic container and fork he’d grabbed down on the floor next to him and buried his head against his knees, willing the feelings to go away.

He was starting to believe that Snape cared about him. Of course he was. The man had said as much that morning, had gone on about how committed he was to Harry, how he would _help_ him…. And now he was pulling stupid stunts like offering to take Harry out for a steak dinner just because Harry had sarcastically ordered up a porterhouse.

It wouldn’t last. Harry knew that. Pity never did, especially not for someone like Snape. He felt bad now because he saw himself in Harry, but sooner or later the old animosity would come roaring back, and when it did…. Well, best not to leave Snape with too many examples of Harry taking advantage of him.

Harry reached for his album, which he’d stashed under his bed before going back downstairs. This, he knew, would have to be sent away for safekeeping. There was no getting around that. He closed his eyes lightly, trying to dredge up the willpower in himself.

If it stayed here, if Snape got fed up with him again… the man had already threatened once to pitch it into the fire. Harry didn’t want to try his luck any longer. He pushed himself up from the floor and dug in his trunk until he found an old sweater from Dudley that would have to serve. It wasn’t ideal by any means, but it would at least protect the album from the elements during transit.

Hedwig was dozing in her cage then. Harry always hated waking her, but this, he knew, couldn’t wait another second. So after slipping the album into his sweater and binding the whole thing up with the sleeves he reached a careful hand into the cage and stroked the snowy owl’s head until her yellow eyes blinked open and fixed on him.

“Hey, girl,” Harry murmured. He retrieved his parcel from the floor. “Think you can deliver this to the Burrow straight away? It’s really important.”

Hedwig cocked her head at him, as if she didn’t quite understand.

Harry held out the bundle to her. “Go on, girl. Take it to Ron for me, okay?”

Still the owl stared at him, unblinking. She did not even shuffle forward.

Frustrated, Harry pushed a corner of the package into her cage. “Just take it! Come on, Hedwig, it needs to get to the Burrow tonight!”

Hedwig hooted softly and flapped her wings a little, beating them against the metal of the cage. Harry could have sworn that she was disagreeing.

Harry sighed and, setting the album aside for a moment, made to reach into the owl’s cage. He held out a hand for her to step onto, which she promptly did, just as always. Harry stared deeply into the owl’s eyes, wondering if he could communicate to her this way just how important it was that she do what he asked.

Hedwig just stared back, stubborn and unrelenting.

Harry growled in frustration to himself and grabbed his wrapped album up again, and tried to shove it toward Hedwig. This time she hooted angrily at him and took off, fluttering over to the windowsill, and then proceeded to glare at him resentfully (or, it looked like a resentful glare to Harry, at least).

“Hedwig,” he hissed, “what’s gotten into you?” He charged toward the window with the album, but this time Hedwig actually screeched at him, loudly enough that Harry knew Snape would hear it downstairs. Then she flew up over his head and toward her cage, though in her frenzy she ended up knocking it over, causing it to clatter to the floor.

And it was then, of course, that Snape burst into the room, his eyes narrowed suspiciously, his mouth pursed in a dire frown. “What on _earth_ is going on in here?” he demanded, his eyes sweeping quickly over the scene.

“Nothing—”

“No, Potter,” Snape cut him off, the words nothing but a deep, throaty growl. “Do not tell me _nothing_. Explain. Now.”

“I was just trying to send a package off, I swear,” Harry stammered. He automatically clutched the album tighter to his chest, heart thudding. Snape wouldn’t ask to see it, he promised himself. The man wouldn’t care. “Hedwig won’t take it, though, even though she always has before—”

“What were you trying to send?” Snape’s lip curled contemptuously as it locked on the cloth-wrapped bundle. “Perhaps the issue is that it does not remotely resemble a _package_. Why did you not ask for paper?”

“It shouldn’t matter what I wrapped it in,” Harry protested, his voice trembling slightly.

“No? Perhaps the answer, then, is in what you were trying send. What is it?”

Harry cradled the album more tightly. “It’s not important. I’ll just—it can stay here. I’ll try again later—”

“Give it here.” Snape held out a hand imperiously.

“No! It’s mine, and I didn’t even do anything wrong—”

“Knowing you, it may be some dangerous thing you’ve no business possessing—”

“It’s an album, okay?” Harry shouted, undoing the jumper to show Snape. Damn it, why did the man have to be so awful? There was no telling what he would do with it now. Or even later, once his strange desire to “help” Harry wore off. “Of my parents. It’s all I have from them. It’s not a Dark artifact or anything, so just calm down.”

Snape’s expression remained thoroughly suspicious. “Why were you trying to send it off? That strikes me as something you’d prefer to keep in your possession.”

Harry opened his mouth to tell Snape that it was none of his sodding business, but the man didn’t wait for his reply.

Instead, he continued to muse, as though unraveling some great mystery, “In fact, that may explain your owl’s refusal to accept it. Familiars, owls in particular, are emotionally attuned to their masters. She likely senses your inner conflict.”

Harry shrugged. “Maybe. I’ll just—uh work on sorting my feelings out, then, and try again later—”

“You still have not answered my question.” Snape’s stare grew clear and piercing again, leaving Harry with no illusions of getting out of this. “Why are you sending one of your dearest possessions off with your owl?”

Harry dropped his gaze to the floor. “Safekeeping,” he mumbled evasively.

“What do you mean, ‘safekeeping’? What do you imagine happening to it here? I would assume that whoever gave the album to you—Dumbledore, if I don’t miss my mark—has enchanted it to withstand the more mundane forms of wear and tear, and likely other incidental damage—”

“It was from Hagrid, okay?” Harry snapped. “And his magic—well, you should know it’s not his strong suit. It was good of him to get it together at all.”

A quick glance up at Snape told Harry that the man was slightly troubled, his brow furrowed intensely. “You mean to tell me that Professor Dumbledore gave you nothing from your parents?”

Ah. A Slytherin feint, Harry thought, his anger burning even hotter. “I think you _know_ what Professor Dumbledore passed to me from my father,” he spat. “Because I don’t believe for a second he let you leave something that valuable with my Muggle relatives—”

“Ah. Your cloak, yes. It is stored safely with your broom, and your—ah— _spare bit of parchment_. I’d meant to tell you… in fact, I rather assumed you would have enquired by now. But I was not referring to that. I meant more tokens or personal items… you truly have nothing?”

Now Harry raised his head to glare at the man. What, was he looking for more things to threaten? Did he think that he’d need to destroy something else after the album, that Harry would still misbehave or do something abhorrent?

Some part of him argued that he was being irrational, seeing as Snape had told Harry that his perception of him had changed. The professor hadn’t really threatened him in a while—well, apart from his comment at lunch about treating Harry like a toddler. But that wasn’t even much of a threat, was it?

The other, much louder part of Harry’s mind was screaming that he had to do everything he could to protect his few possessions, because Snape wasn’t trustworthy and would change his mind, and would go back to hating Harry the second he got sick of this new game he was playing.

Apparently the glare was answer enough for Snape. “Why do you believe your album must be sent elsewhere?” he continued, his attention solidly on the object in question. “Surely it would be fine in your trunk—”

“As long as I don’t upset you,” Harry muttered.

“What are you implying?” Snape demanded sharply. “You believe _I_ would do something to it?”

Harry could hardly contain his fury any more. After all, what did Snape think he was doing, playing dumb like this? Pretending to be offended by the clear threat he’d once made? “Yeah, you told me you’d pitch it in the fire, didn’t you, right after my personal letters—”

“Merlin’s _blood_ , boy, I returned your letters to you! And the rest—it was an empty threat, _obviously_ , and even then only uttered because I believed you to be purposely withholding an elderly woman’s possessions from her! I thought extreme measures were needed to persuade you to do the decent thing! And never once—not _once_ —did I contemplate burning an album filled with your only memories of your parents. I did not even know you possessed the thing!”

“Sure,” Harry hissed, “until you decide I’m arrogant again, or disrespectful, and you want to teach me a lesson—”

“Give it here.”

The command was clear, the tone tight, and it dropped Harry’s heart straight through the floor. He’d already been disrespectful, he now realized. He’d spoken to Snape contemptuously, and that wasn’t even counting the way he’d acted that morning.

“Sir, please,” he pleaded, at once contrite and terrified. “Please, I’ll do anything, just don’t—”

That only seemed to incense the man further. “I said give it _here_ , Mr. Potter.” He held his hand out expectantly. “Now!”

“What—what do you want with it?” Harry stuttered. “Look, I’m sorry, just don’t… please, don’t—”

“I am not going to tell you my intentions because you must _learn_. Hand it over or I will take it myself.”

Harry briefly thought about trying to run---though Snape was blocking the doorway. He might be able to get out the window… but there was nowhere to go, and defying Snape like that might push the man over the edge. For the moment he might just be looking to confiscate it.

And Harry couldn’t win this fight. He knew that. Snape was a fully-fledged wizard, and frighteningly competent. He would just Stupefy Harry and take the album if he had to.

So the only solution, really, was do as Snape said an pray the man had, as he insisted he did, a shred of human decency. Harry offered it out reluctantly, a steel vice grip clamped over his lungs. “Please,” he repeated, the word a feeble croak.

Snape seized the album and immediately drew and leveled his wand at it.

“No!” Harry cried. He didn’t dare try to snatch the album back, though every instinct in him was screaming to do so. “No, don’t, professor, please—”

“ _Protegam igni_ ,” Snape uttered, and a silver, rippling flame erupted from his wand to enshroud the album. But the book did not dissolve into ash, as Harry had feared it would. Instead the shimmering flames seemed to sink straight into the album itself.

The man wasn’t done, though. Snape incanted a few more spells after that, his wand moving swiftly and precisely. “ _Salva semper_ ,” he murmured, summoning forth a purplish jet of light, and after that, “ _Praesidium aquae_ ”, a marine bubble that enveloped the album and slowly shrank into it.

And then he set the album down on the desk and uttered, “ _Accio_ photos,” which drew out every last picture Harry had kept stored in the album and extracted them into a stack, which Snape caught deftly in his free hand. And then, in answer to Harry’s unasked question, he stated shortly, “Protective spells. I will ask Professor Dumbledore to augment my own, warding and charms not being my forte.”

Something felt as though it twisted in Harry as he began to process those words. He slumped back onto the edge of the bed, exhausted, feeling too much all at once. Wards. For God’s sake, Snape had cast _wards_ on his album. Was going to ask Dumbledore to do more. Harry could not dredge up any words in that moment.

Snape proceeded to settle the stack of photos onto the desk beside the album before arcing his wand over them all. “ _Geminos omnes._ ” And suddenly there were two stacks of photos. “There. Much better than your asinine plan to mail the entire thing off to Merlin knows where. Weasley, am I right?”

Harry felt a dull flush stain his skin at those words.

“The originals should be kept in your vault at Gringotts. I’ll find an envelope so that you can Floo the goblins this afternoon and have them deposited. The duplicates will not last indefinitely—five years or so, before they start to deteriorate, at which point you will have to make new copies from the originals.”

Harry merely nodded to his knees, too ashamed to lift his head. He’d assumed that Snape would incinerate the whole thing on sight, and instead the potions master had imbued them with protective spells and then gone on to expertly arrange for Harry to never have to worry about losing his most precious memories again. Or, almost never, since Voldemort had proven he _could_ break into Gringotts… but likely not for something as insignificant as a handful of photographs.

“The album itself should provide ample protection for the copies. And Albus should be able to charm the whole thing to respond to your touch alone, should you wish.” Snape waved his wand again, no incantation this time, the single arc over the duplicated photos causing them to fly up and gracefully reinsert themselves into the album, which opened itself as if in welcome. One final wave of his wand righted Hedwig’s overturned cage.

“Thank you,” Harry forced himself to say. Because he couldn’t deny what Snape had done, or why he’d done it.

“Hmph.” Snape didn’t sound gracious, or even acknowledging, of Harry’s thanks.

And then, because the guilt was still a tight, unrelenting ball in his stomach, Harry added, “I’m—I’m sorry that I didn’t trust you… that I believed you’d… well.” In an even smaller, fainter voice, he whispered, “I should have known better—”

“Please,” Snape scoffed. “It’s hardly surprising that you thought I was about to obliterate your most precious possession.”

Harry flinched, not sure if Snape was calling him stupid or simply ungrateful.

Neither, as it turned out. “Oh, for pity’s sake. I merely meant that I’ve treated you abominably and given you precious little reason to trust me.” Snape heaved a deep sigh. “Potter—Harry. You’ve no reason to apologize. I only hope you realize I’ve no further intention of tormenting or hurting or humiliating you.”

Harry nodded weakly into his lap, more in recognition of the statement than agreement with it.

Snape waited for a moment, perhaps for a further response. But when the silence began to stretch, Snape continued on, his voice much softer and smoother than Harry had ever heard it, “I would like you to join me downstairs for lunch.” And when Harry did not respond immediately, he added the one word that Harry had been certain was not a part of Severus Snape’s vocabulary—at least, not unless it was coated in a thick layer of sarcasm. “Please.” Utterly sincere then.

And of course Harry couldn’t deny that simple request, could he? Not after what Snape had just done for him. Not after all he’d already done, too, if Harry was being honest with himself. Taking him in when he needed it, even if he’d been unpleasant about it, and seeing to it that Harry was fed and clothed, and getting him through that dreadful hearing….

“Sure.”

“Good. Do not forget your shepherd’s pie.” And with that Snape was withdrawing, leaving Harry to process once again.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flying, letter-writing, and a discussion of names. And Snape begins to hone the art of embarrassing Harry.

After lunch (warm shepherd’s pie, reheated with a flick of Snape’s wand), Snape called up the goblins at Gringotts through the fireplace for Harry. He’d already prepared the envelope of photos for Harry’s vault.

The wrinkled, sour-faced goblin who answered introduced himself as Gruknot, and did not look at all pleased to be answering a private Floo call. He offered no opening salvos; he merely stared grimly at Harry, his disembodied head flickering with strange shadows from the Floo fire.

Snape stood just behind Harry, to his left, and seemed content to watch Harry flounder his way through this mess. And Harry himself didn’t have the foggiest idea of what he might say.

“Um—I wanted to deposit something—”

“Name and vault number,” Gruknot cut him off sharply, each word positively dripping contempt.

“Harry Potter, Vault—uh—”

“Six eighty-seven,” Snape supplied smoothly.

“Right.” Harry did his best not to let his blush spread too far over his face.

Gruknot looked utterly disgusted then. “Item description?”

Harry had to swallow to remoisten his throat and mouth. “A packet of photographs—”

“The _number_ of photographs,” the goblin demanded. At least the “you imbecile” part of the statement was left unspoken.

Harry looked helplessly to Snape, who replied easily, “Forty-seven.”

The goblin nodded sharply. “Packet of forty-seven photographs. The vault inventory list will be updated. Floo the item through directly.” And then Gruknot made to withdraw from the Floo.

“Wait!” Harry pleaded.

The goblin paused, lip start to lift in what looked to be a snarl.

“I’d also like an accounting. Of—of my—er, monetary assets. My galleons. And recent withdrawals.”

The goblin just stared blankly at Harry, one bushy brow arched in question. “A statement?”

“Yes—”

“Very well,” Gruknot grumbled, as if Harry had asked him to personally count each and every knut in the Potter vault. “Expect an owl within the week.”

“Thank you,” Harry began, but by the time he’d forced out the first syllable the goblin had already disappeared from the Floo.

Snape wasted no time in moving on to his next order of business. “Have you begun work on any of your summer assignments?” he inquired, drawing his dark wand and flicking at the rack next to the hearth, which housed a collection of fire tending implements. The brush and scoop disentangled themselves and began sweeping up the leftover ashes from the floo call from the stonework in front of the fire.

“No, sir—”

“I prefer Severus.” There was no rebuke in those words. They were stated plainly, no demand in them either.

Harry ignored him and hoped he didn’t anger the man in doing so. “I’ve only had the textbooks for a few days—”

“July is nearly half over, and the rest of the holiday will swiftly follow.”

Harry nodded in feeble agreement. It wasn’t like he had much else to do. He sure couldn’t reread his old textbooks _again_ , and since Snape wasn’t about to let him climb back on the roof… though he almost wished his professor would let him finish that project. He missed the distraction of the hard labor, and, strangely enough, the deep satisfaction of finishing a job that he’d started.

“You can work on your assignments for an hour this afternoon. That should make for an adequate start.”

Harry nodded again, surprised at how reasonable Snape’s command had been. Uncomfortably surprised, even, because he was forced to recognize that the man wasn’t actually coddling him or pitying him, as he’d once thought. If that had been the case, Snape never would have brought up homework, right? He would have just left Harry alone, too afraid of upsetting him or overwhelming him. Instead he was setting a feasible amount of work for Harry.

Though part of him still wished that the man would load him down with chores again, because if Harry had to keep himself entertained for one more afternoon on his own he was certain he would go mad.

“Bring it down here so I can help you if need be.”

Harry nearly snorted at that. As if he would ever willingly ask Snape for help. Sure, Snape might be… might be _decent_ , now, but that certainly didn’t mean that he wouldn’t revert to the awful professor he’d always been as soon as anything remotely academic was brought up.

So he chose his Charms assignment, which consisted of a few chapters of reading and a short essay, and settled into the couch in the sitting room, while Snape took his usual place in his armchair, a thick, complicated-looking book splayed over one knee.

It was strange to share space with Snape. Strange enough that it was distracting, Harry found. He could scarcely concentrate on the text in front of him, instead finding himself compelled to glance over at Snape every few minutes, thoughts straying back to the album upstairs and the photos now safely stored in his vault, and the feeling he’d tried to pretend didn’t exist in his stomach every time the man stared at him with those not-quite-cold eyes and insisted he eat.

After what felt much longer than an hour, Snape finally turned back to Harry, who was still struggling through the very first pages of his text, and announced, “Enough of that. You can resume tomorrow. Unless you have questions?”

“No, sir.” Harry closed his text, his mind already leaping to what he might do now. Write to Hermione and Ron, maybe, though that would be largely pointless since he would see them tomorrow. If Snape kept his word, that was, which Harry believed he would.

“Very well.” Snape seemed to hesitate then, and for once his perpetually-composed features betrayed a bit of uncertainty. The man lightly cleared his throat, then snapped his book closed and declared suddenly, “I imagine it has been difficult for you to be confined to this house for so long.”

Harry just stared at Snape, trying to figure out where in the hell that statement was going. Maybe he was going to be offered a chance to go for a walk around the neighborhood? Or the backyard, at least? “Be nice to get out,” he agreed, wishing his words wouldn’t tremble so much.

“Well. While I’m sure you can guess what I might have to say about voicing your needs….” Snape stood from his chair and moved to re-shelve his book. “I suppose the point is moot now.” His hand lingered on the spines of the uppermost shelf, where he’d replaced his oldest volume. Then he turned back to Harry abruptly, though the motion was not nearly so striking as when the man was wearing his full teaching ensemble. In the loose jumper it just looked odd. Less intimidating, more like a nervous habit. “I have… well, it has occurred to me that you have had little recreation since arriving here.”

Harry continued to stare. Was the man… stumbling? Though Severus Snape stumbling over his words was really not much, just the slightest bit of hesitation marring the smooth and confident tone and cadence. Harry suspected it was only so obvious because he’d spent so much recent time in the man’s company. A glance at the man’s face exposed nothing but the same placid, unrevealing expression that he wore most days now (still an improvement over the constant scowl, Harry decided).

“I have spent a great deal of time contemplating this, and I believe… I believe you can be trusted not to abuse this privilege.” Then, as if the words were layered with barbed hooks that made them difficult to expel, Snape added, “You have shown a great deal of maturity under trying circumstances, and I believe that you will treat this opportunity with all due caution.”

Harry was on the verge of screaming out _what opportunity? What privilege? What in the bloody hell are you hinting at here_?

But Snape wasted no time. He turned to the small closet that served as storage space beneath the stairs, tapped the tarnished handle once with his wand, and drew a broom out of it.

Not just any broom. Harry’s broom. His Firebolt. And it was then that Harry knew Snape was utterly, stark barking mad.

“Sir—”

“I will need to modify your ring,” Snape continued as he moved to carefully lean the broom against his armchair. “To extend the range as well as add precautionary spells. I think a mile in each direction will do for radius…. I will have a tracking charm on it, of course. And I will charm it to function as an emergency portkey as well. And even then I will have to insist on your being out for no more than an hour at a time, given last year’s events.”

Harry fidgeted nervously at the unwelcome reminder, and the emotions that threatened to resurge. But he shoved the niggling memories aside, as he always did, and continued, “Sir, are you sure—”

Snape’s dark, intense eyes met Harry’s, and there was a fierceness there that made him squirm a bit in his seat. “Yes. As I said, I have given this a great deal of thought. The risk should be minimal, and you could do with time out of the house.”

Out of the house. Flying. Harry could not seem to wrap his mind around the prospect. Some part of him still believed that Snape would, at any moment, pull a sneer and demand how it was possible that Harry could be so stupid. But that part now seemed small and irrational to Harry.

Snape had, after all, had ample opportunity just that day to truly hurt Harry, and he hadn’t. That had to be worth something.

But trust was a terrifying thing, Harry found. It was so much easier to just believe the worst of Snape and operate based on those assumptions.

“Your hand, Mr.—Harry?”

Harry winced again. He did not like how intentional Snape was being with this name thing. But he obeyed the request all the same, tentatively extending the hand with the ring to Snape, who touched the tip of his wand gently to the surface of the metal. A few long incantations later and Snape pronounced it “adequately modified.”

And then he offered Harry the Firebolt.

“I can’t just—just go flying around a neighborhood of Muggles!” Harry blurted out, his heartbeat hastening. Such an obvious, stupid flaw—Snape _had_ been taunting, him, hadn’t he? And now he would roll his eyes and laugh at Harry for not realizing such a glaring issue earlier, for actually believing—

“I will cast a Disillusionment Charm over you, of course. It will endure for the hour and shield you from prying eyes.”

Oh.

“I have a few rules, however,” Snape continued, his tone growing severe and his eyes taking on that special, fail-this-potion-and-you-will-have-detention-with-Filch gleam that Harry recognized too easily. “No foolhardy stunts whatsoever, is that absolutely clear? No dives, corkscrews, barrel rolls, sharp banks, side-saddle, wind-surfing, hanging ten—”

“What’s hanging ten?” Harry realized after the fact that he probably should have done more to damper the raw, excited curiosity in his tone, judging by the ferocity of Snape’s glare.

“Five hundred points from Gryffindor and a month of cauldron duty if I even _suspect_ you’ve attempted it,” Snape shot back.

Harry nodded solemnly, though he filed the term away for future examination. He wondered what other broom tricks had been lost between generations. Maybe he could ask—

No. No, he would not ask his so-called godfather. Likely the man would decide Harry was only asking to learn new techniques for robbing Gringotts the next month.

“You will fly sensibly,” Snape continued, oblivious to Harry’s shifting thoughts. “You will not perch on precarious, high places and risk falling. You will remain seated on your broom at all times, flying at a reasonable speed, exercising all due caution, and if there is even a hint—a _hint_ , Potter—of you disregarding these limits, I will gladly put that broom back in the closet until September. Are we clear on that?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry agreed solemnly, finding that he could meet Snape’s dark, insistent eyes in this instant. He really had no intentions of getting himself killed out there. He knew that he wasn’t nearly as stupid as Snape liked to make him out to be. 

Harry could see the reluctance plain as day written across Snape’s face, and for a moment his gut clenched, thinking that Snape would change his mind. Not to be intentionally cruel, but because the man was too concerned about Harry getting himself injured to give up his control over the situation. Harry braced himself for the retraction.

Snape drew a deep breath, one that caused his shoulders to rise significantly and hold for a moment before falling again. “The key word is ‘domum’. If you speak it you will be taken to a safe location, and someone will be along to see to you shortly after that. There is a tracking charm on it, but if you are injured at all you will use the portkey. If you are in trouble, you will use the portkey. If you _think_ you are in trouble, you will—”

“Use the portkey,” Harry murmured. “Yes, sir.”

“Touching the band and saying ‘help’ will still alert me trouble, but I prefer to have you out of harm’s way as quickly as possible.” Snape took the broom and, with a slight nod of his head indicated that Harry should follow him out through the kitchen and into the backyard. Harry trailed after him, his stomach still churning with the fear that Snape would change his mind.

“Here.”

As soon as they reached the backyard, Snape passed the broom over to him. As with his wand, the shaft of the broom seemed to positively glow as soon as Harry’s fingers. Harry could not deny the way his heart fluttered, nor the warmth that flowed through him at the anticipated joy of flight. The sudden urge to throw a leg over the broom and kick off was overwhelming.

Snape drew his wand and leveled it at Harry. At one time, Harry thought, such a gesture would have had him ducking for cover, tucking and rolling away from what was sure to be a hex. Now… now Harry just stood, waiting.

The spell hit him like a bucket of cold water, trickling down his skull and neck and raising goosebumps over every inch of his skin. The sensation faded rapidly, though, and when he glanced down he could only see a faint distortion of the air, like heat rising off of black tar on a hot summer day.

“The ring will warm when you begin to stray too far afield, and it will hum when it is time for you to return.” If Harry didn’t know better, he would say that there was genuine anguish in the man’s face. “Do not do anything too foolish.”

Harry was beyond grateful that the man could not see the blush on his cheeks this once. “I won’t, sir. I—”

“I prefer Severus.”

Harry knew he should concede and just repeat the name back to the professor, just this once, just to thank him for this opportunity. But he couldn’t; it was wrong, and it still felt to him like a baited trap, even if he knew on a logical level that Snape wouldn’t punish him for calling him by his given name as he’d requested numerous times now.

“Right,” he offered instead, rather lamely. “I promise I’ll be careful.”

Snape nodded curtly, his expression more guarded now than neutral.

Harry forced himself to swallow past the tightness in his throat, and he added in as soft and sincere a voice as he could manage, “Thank you.”

Snape nodded again, and Harry could have sworn that something like warmth sparked in his dark eyes, if only for a moment.

Harry swung a leg over the broom, going by feel more than anything, leant into the handle, and kicked off. And then he was soaring.

Up, away from Cokesworth, away from the dingy little two-story house and the depressing back yard and the half-finished roof. He continued to climb toward the sky and the lazy white clouds drifting above them, leaving behind the dirty rows of houses and the twin factory smokestacks and everything about the neighborhood below him that felt no better than the juvenile detention facility.

And he was flying away, too, from the gnawing worry that never seemed to leave him. From the unopened letters and the anger at everyone in his life that he’d once trusted. Away from the uncertainty and the fear for the future, away from Voldemort’s plans and the war looming on the horizon. He was melting into the sky itself, dissipating into the wind, until he was nothing more than that roar of air whistling past his ears and rushing through his clothes and the exhilarating warmth of acceleration and flight.

He could breathe. He was free.

XXXXX

Scotch. That was what Snape had smelled like.

The revelation hit Harry as he was twirling the noodles of his alfredo, the second helping Snape had insisted upon when Harry had tried to excuse himself only to find himself glued to his seat.

Snape had been very adamant about the second helping. Just as he’d been very adamant about looking Harry over as soon as he’d touched down. Harry still had no idea how the man had seen him before canceling the Disillusionment Charm. But he had been waiting in the back yard, wand out, and had descended on Harry immediately, hands clamping Harry into place for a thorough looking-over. He’d asked a few basic questions—had Harry encountered any trouble, had Harry been hurt? He’d visually scanned Harry a few times before seemingly finding satisfaction and releasing the boy.

Harry chalked it up to his fear of angering Dumbledore. The man still thought he’d get into trouble for minor scrapes and things. It wasn’t as if Snape wouldn’t know if he had Death Eaters skulking around in his own backyard. And really, what was there outside of that to cause Harry much trouble? It wasn’t like he was stupid enough to fly into an airplane or something.

It had been odd, though, because there had been an extra scent clinging to Snape. Usually the man smelled vaguely medicinal (not that Harry was close enough often enough to learn the man’s scent), and maybe once or twice Harry had caught a faint whiff of aftershave or something. But this time there had been that unmistakable peaty, sharp scent that was familiar to him but unplaceable.

And finally, after nearly an hour of ruminating over it, it had clicked. Snape smelled like Vernon after he’d been into the scotch.

And wasn’t that an unfathomable thought? Harry couldn’t imagine someone as self-disciplined and prim as Snape ever unbuttoning enough to drink. But he had, apparently.

Harry cast a wary eye at Snape, who was fastidiously cutting a neat bite off of his chicken breast. When Vernon drank… well, Harry just knew to stay clear of the man. Mostly he just hurled more verbal abuse, but occasionally he seemed to get into a mood where he wanted to shake Harry around a bit. Snape seemed no different than usual, but who knew what Snape was like under the influence?

“Is there some reason you are staring at me?” Snape did not even look up from his plate.

Harry flushed and hastily averted his eyes. “No.”

Now Snape did turn his head, one brow arched critically. “You are a poor liar, Potter.”

Harry’s hand tightened around his fork. “Sorry,” he breathed, his mind racing. He needed to finish eating fast, and then get back to his room. Snape’s room. The room he was using in Snape’s house. And if he stayed there, there was no way—

Shit, Snape was upset. From the corner of his eye, he could see the man rubbing at his temples as though he had a migraine. “I swear I am going to cast a Geas on that word.”

Exasperation, but also… hell, Snape sounded defeated somehow. “A—a Geas?”

“A magical prohibition, because if I hear another unnecessary apology from you I may just be nauseated to the point of vomiting.”

“You can do that?”

Snape cast a somewhat derisive glance toward Harry, his large nose slightly wrinkled. “Unlikely. It requires a powerful wizard to cast it and make it stick.”

Harry pushed his noodles some more, twirling them slightly into a small, peaked hill on his plate. “I didn’t mean to stare—”

“What on earth has gotten into you? When have I ever punished you for _looking_ at me?”

“I didn’t think you would,” Harry mumbled. “I just didn’t want you to think that I was trying to provoke you or anything, sir—”

“Potter.” Snape spoke his name, then waited. Reluctantly, Harry dragged his gaze back up to the Professor’s. “I requested we be finished with the honorifics.”

“I know, I just—”

“You never had an issue omitting them whilst at Hogwarts.” The barest touch of resentment reemerged there, undergirding the man’s simple statement.

“It was different then.” And then, because he felt oddly compelled to be honest, Harry added, “I wasn’t always under your direct authority then, see? If I didn’t live with my aunt and uncle, I’d probably never bother addressing them respectfully either.”

A flash of something passed through Snape’s eyes. Pain? “You do not need to tiptoe around me to avoid my wrath.”

“I know.”

“On an intellectual level, perhaps, but I doubt even in that sense you are sure.” Snape sighed. “No more apologies.”

Harry nodded jerkily in acquiescence and returned his full attention to his plate.

“Have you found time to reply to your letters?”

The sudden change of subject caught Harry entirely off guard. “No.”

“You can do so after you finish here.” Snape polished off the last bit of his chicken before rising with his plate and taking it over to the sink.

“I don’t really want—”

“You will. You have neglected your post for long enough.”

Harry’s irritation flared to life. “You can’t make me write back if I don’t want to!”

Snape just cocked a brow at him. “I think you’ll find I can.” He flicked his wand at the sink to begin the process of washing up. A few empty pots lifted up from the stove, and the scrub brush set in, the sound of bristles against steel becoming a faint, constant murmur in the background. “At the very least, I can have you sit here until you see reason and give in. _Accio_ letters.”

The unopened envelopes came sailing from up the stairs, directly into Snape’s hand.

Harry gritted his teeth. Fine. Another writing exercise. He could get through this. And after, hopefully he would never forget again how much of a domineering bastard Snape could be.

Snape set the stack of letters to the side of Harry’s water glass. “It will be good for you.”

Harry bit back a scathing retort to that, instead stabbing fiercely at the few remaining noodles on his plate and shoveling them into his mouth.

“You need closure, and you have been ignoring your conflicts with your support figures for too long—”

“They’re not ‘supports’,” Harry muttered. “But if you want me to spell that out to them, fine, I will.” Harry finished the last piece of broccoli sitting on his plate and felt the Sticking Charm release. Briefly he toyed with the idea of fleeing to his bedroom and refusing to come out for the rest of the day, but he figured that would end poorly and only result in further conflict with Snape.

Harry rose to drop his plate in the sink, doing his best not to look directly at Snape. He knew his shoulders were tense and that his stance had to be pretty hostile, and that didn’t set well with him after Snape had gone out of his way to make sure Harry could go flying, and had charmed his album and duplicated his pictures, and taken him shopping, and gotten him through the trial.

But the man could be so bloody irritating! Why did he have to be so involved in Harry’s affairs? Why couldn’t he leave well enough alone? After all, what did it matter to him whether he replied to Mrs. Weasley or Sirius or Remus? He hated all of them! Well, not Mrs. Weasley, maybe, but he probably wasn’t great friends with her or anything. It shouldn’t matter to him one whit whether Harry made nice or not.

Maybe he could send out form responses. Something along the lines of, “I’m sorry and I won’t do it again”.

When he turned back to the table, Snape had already laid out parchment and an inkwell, along with a quill. He must have conjured it all. Harry forced himself to take a deep breath and sat back down. The sooner he got through this, the sooner he could get on with his night. He dipped the quill in the inkpot and began scratching out a basic salutation at the top of his blank parchment.

“I was under the impression that one had to actually read the letters one was replying to.” Snape’s words remained surprisingly light, a veiled admonishment rather than an implication that Harry’s brain was the size of a gnat’s.

Not in the mood to argue, Harry very deliberately set the quill aside. So he would have to read the bloody letters. Fine. Then he would know for sure exactly what his beloved “support figures” had to say about him. He tore into Sirius’ answer first.

It was surprisingly short. _Harry,_ it read,

_Please write back so that I know you’re okay. Snape says he delivered my last letter but I doubt it. I’ll keep harassing him until he does. I know it’s got to be awful staying with him. And now I hear you didn’t even do anything wrong. I’m trying to get you cleared to stay here. I’ll talk to Dumbledore again. Love, Snuffles_

Harry fought the urge to ball the whole thing up and fling it across the room. Under Snape’s watchful eye, he didn’t dare. He didn’t know where “here” was, but he doubted his godfather was sane if he thought that Harry could live in a squat with him while on the lam. And then he’d heard Harry had been falsely accused, but hadn’t bothered to write an apology? Harry shook his head to himself in disgust, and moved on to the next letter. Mrs. Weasley.

_Harry,_

_Severus is most insistent that you are being provided for and that you have everything you need, and I know he is a Head of House, but I worry that he does not know how to properly care for a young boy. We are hoping to have Albus agree to have you at the Burrow for the rest of the holiday. I know that my boys and Ginny would love to have you here. We would have to bunk you with Ron, so it might be a bit cozy, but we’ll make do. Hopefully we can have you here shortly._

_I am so sorry to hear about the mess they’ve put you through this summer, what with that burglary nonsense. I’ve only heard the basic details about how the whole affair was handled, but I understand that those Muggles have been useless for straightening anything out. I’m glad to hear that Albus had Severus step in for you._

_I do hope to hear back from you. I understand you’ve been busy with the hearing and all, and I realize that Hedwig has been with us. Hopefully now you’ll have time to jot off a quick response to us to let us know if you’d like to come to stay._

_Love, Molly_

Harry flipped the letter over beside him with a great deal more force than was necessary. Didn’t she remember what she’d written him before? Didn’t she have words about how wrong she’d been and how she shouldn’t have leapt to conclusions?

And as for staying at the Burrow…. He’d begged Snape for that option, and he doubted that the man would budge on his position, but even so, he really didn’t want to be there. He would love to spend time with Ron and the others, sure, but he felt sick even imagining having Mr. and Mrs. Weasley in charge of him. They’d fawn over him and treat him as if he could do no wrong, as they always had, until they suspected him of wrongdoing, and then they’d turn on him. Just like the others when he’d tried to tell them Voldemort was back.

At least with Snape he knew where he stood. Mostly. The man wasn’t usually nice or anything, and he definitely didn’t coddle Harry, but he did take his duties as a guardian seriously. And he dedicated a lot of time to Harry specifically. Even that hour he’d sat with Harry in the parlor while Harry worked on his homework… Harry had never had an adult tell him to do school work before. The Dursleys hadn’t cared, and the Weasleys had never been very directly involved in Harry’s care. He’d always been a friend staying over, and the Boy Who Lived to boot. But Snape would make sure he ate and had proper clothes, and didn’t put his summer assignments off until the last minute. He wasn’t Famous Harry Potter here; he was just Harry, Snape’s ward.

Hell. He actually _preferred_ staying with Snape to the Weasleys. Not that he’d ever tell the man.

He stole a glance at Snape, who was leaning against the kitchen counter, watching Harry impassively. Harry wondered if he’d stay the whole time, or just long enough to ensure that Harry read his letters.

Harry sighed internally and took up the last one, from Lupin. And he read.

_Harry,_

_Severus let us know that we were misinformed about what had happened. I apologize for a rather pointless rant, though my concerns remain unchanged. How are you bearing up after everything? I know that Severus cannot be easy to live with, especially given your particular history. I have been speaking with Sirius and trying to determine what we could do to convince Albus to bring you here (I cannot say where, but I suspect you will understand soon enough)._

_I have heard from Ron and Hermione that they have received replies from you. I am glad to hear from them that you seem to be doing well, despite your difficult situation. I hope to hear back from you soon as well. You can always come to me if you need to talk about anything._

_Remus_

Harry’s hand was crumpling the parchment hard by the time he finished reading the letter. Oh, there was such a generous apology in this one. _Sorry I wasted my time scolding you_. Not “I’m sorry I wrongly assumed you could ever do something so awful”. And then the little guilt trip about not having received a reply, as if Harry _owed it_ to him to write him back as soon as possible. And talking to Remus about _anything_ … well, he’d like to start with a nice, easy question. Maybe, “where the hell were you when I was competing in the Triwizard Tournament?” Or, “why are you suddenly interested in checking in on me now? Why not before, when the Dursleys were treating me like shite all those years?”

Vaguely, it bothered him that all three of them seemed to think that Snape was terrible to him. Yeah, the professor hadn’t been a ray of sunshine from the beginning, and he could still be a complete arse when it suited him, but he was really a very decent guardian. Especially now that he seemed to have gotten over his misconceptions about Harry. It was dumb of any of them to assume that they were better.

 _Severus let us know…_ that phrase stood out in Harry’s mind. Snape had told them about Harry being framed? When had he done that? And how had that gone over? They had to have been pestering him or something, and he’d snapped at them and accidentally told them the truth. Or maybe he’d informed Dumbledore, and Dumbledore had ordered him to tell the others. Who knew.

He sighed and, shoving the letters away, pulled a clean sheet of parchment toward him and began painstakingly to write. Snape watched him for a few more moments before he slid out, apparently satisfied with Harry’s commitment.

Perhaps the Potions Master should have stayed. As soon as he was out of sight, the very composed, formal reply Harry had started to his godfather started to devolve into insults and accusations and angry, illegible slashes on the parchment that were more effective at translating Harry’s anger than any combination of letters ever could be. Finishing Sirius’, Harry shoved the letter aside and started in on Mrs. Weasley’s answer, and then Remus’. He snapped his quill twice, and once he dragged the side of his hand through an ink blob, blackening it and making an even greater mess of the already butchered parchment. But the words that had been festering in his mind for days now seemed to break through their dam and poured forth uncontrollably, spilling over the parchment in a litany of ugly, sharp questions and statements that he never would have uttered aloud. The flood continued for an immeasurable amount of time, with Harry lost to all sense of place, consumed by the emotions tearing through him. His hand started to cramp and ache, but he ignored it, needing to finish this.

_Do you think so little of me that you’d believe I’d rob someone without even questioning it? Do you even know what my home life is like? Would you even care if I told you that I have nightmares every night about what happened in that graveyard? How would you feel if I told you that Snape knows more about me and has supported me more than any of you ever have?_

When he at last set the quill down, he was horrified to find that there were hot tears welling up in his eyes. He swiped a sleeve over them, angrily scrubbing them away, and went to was the ink off his hands, his heart racing in his breast even as his fury faded and turned to shame.

He remembered what Snape had said to him earlier about his selfishness. About how these people had concerns other than his well-being, and that it was rather egotistical of him to believe that they could orient their lives around his needs. That they cared, that they were asking after him, should be enough. It didn’t feel like it could be enough, but then again, maybe his expectations were unrealistic.

He dried his hands on the dish towel hung over the stove handle, and then went to snatch all of his writing up and pitched it straight in the rubbish bin. He forced himself to take a few more calming breaths, then took his place back at the table and began again, his answers this time far more restrained.

All of his replies were the same in substance. He apologized for not writing sooner, lying and saying that he’d forgotten to after all the hubbub surrounding the trial died down. He told them that he’d like to stay with them, but he’d already discussed the matter with Snape, who said it would be best for him to remain where he was for the safety of everyone, including himself. Finally, he reassured them all that he was fine, and that he was still pretty upset from everything that had happened in the graveyard, but that he was coping as best he could and he would reach out if he needed help. The replies were bland and insincere, but Harry couldn’t be arsed to care much beyond the fact that they were finished.

He was just composing the last bit of Lupin’s answer when Snape returned, carrying, of all things, a basket of laundry. The sight was so bizarre that Harry just stopped and stared, his brain finding it difficult to process the scene before him.

“Have you finished?”

Harry managed to restart his brain and mumbled, “Nearly.”

Snape raised an eyebrow. “You don’t strike me as the verbose type.”

“I had to start over. The first ones were… no good.”

Snape set his laundry basket down on the kitchen counter. “‘No good’ how, exactly?”

Harry flinched slightly at the memory of what he’d written. “Not civil.”

Snape’s lips twitched just slightly. Likely imagining what he’d written to Sirius initially. “I never demanded you write civil responses.”

That caught Harry off guard. Of course the man would have cared, though, if Harry had sent those initial answers off. They’d all turn around and complain that Harry was rude and ungrateful and had no manners, and that would reflect poorly on Snape, which the man would not stand.

“I said too much in them. I didn’t want them read.”

This time when Snape’s lips twitched, the corners of his mouth remained upturned in an amused little smirk. “I never said you had to write replies fit for me to deliver, either.”

Harry was sick of these games. “Then what the hell was the point of answering my letters at all? Why’d you make me—”

“To force you to deal with your emotions. Allowing them to ferment within you has only done you harm. Do you feel better having written those angry replies?”

If he thought about it… yes. He felt a bit lighter, even knowing that none of those people would ever know what he truly thought on the matter. But he wasn’t about to just admit that to Snape. “I’m tired and my hand hurts.”

The look in Snape’s eye suggested that he knew just how much this exercise had helped Harry. “Do you wish me to deliver those?” He indicated the two partially-folded answers on the table.

“Are you going to make me talk to them if I don’t give them a written reply?” Harry demanded.

Snape shook his head slowly, turning back to retrieve his laundry basket. “Certainly not.”

The knot that had begun to form in Harry’s stomach dissipated. “Can I be done then?”

“Yes. Clean that up, and then bring me any clothing you need washed.”

Harry stared in disbelief for a moment before realizing that Snape had been serious. “I can do my own clothes—”

“Nonsense. I only have a small load here. There is no sense in creating extra work.”

A blush began to creep its way up Harry’s neck. “I’ll do my own. Besides, I’m sure you don’t want anything to do with my dirty pants—”

Snape arched both brows at him in question. “I will be throwing them in the wash, Potter, not inspecting them in detail. Bring them down.”

“Seriously, I can do my own laundry. I’ve been doing it for years—”

“And I commend that capability in a boy your age. I do not, however, require a demonstration of that skill. Really, Potter, they’re brand new. I know that you’re a teenaged boy, but I doubt you could have ruined them in so short a period of time.”

Harry’s blush flared to life and he ducked his head down. He did _not_ want to be having this conversation.

“Have you?”

“No!” Harry snapped, and glared up at Snape, only to realize that the professor was openly smirking at him, clearly enjoying embarrassing Harry.

“Good. Bring your clothes downstairs. If it puts your mind at ease, I promise not to look at your soiled undergarments—"

“I’m going,” Harry interrupted, wishing he knew what to say to wipe the smirk from Snape’s face. What was his issue, anyway? Sadistic bastard.

“Strip your sheets as well. They need to be changed.”

Harry paused on his way out of the dining room. “You know, you’d feel the same way if you had someone else handling _your_ smalls.”

“You have a strange obsession with soiled undergarments, Mr. Potter,” Snape remarked conversationally.

“No, I’m just being practical! Some things are just private.”

Snape heaved a very theatrical sigh, and for a fleeting moment Harry believed he’d won. But then the professor twirled his wand in a broad circle and incanted, “ _Accio_ Harry’s dirty laundry.”

To Harry’s horror, the spell drew a whole parade of crumpled clothes from the upstairs bedroom. Most streamed into the laundry basket, directed by Snape’s wand, but the potions professor managed to snatch a single pair of boxers from the line of clothes and held them up to scrutinize.

“What are you doing?” Harry cried, moving to snatch them back from the man.

Snape did not let Harry, holding them well out of the boy’s reach. “Trying to determine what has you so mortified. Is it related to a possible medical issue?”

“No, I don’t have a medical issue! It’s just my underwear, you….” And it was then that Harry realized that Snape was not looking at the garment he held in his hands, but pointedly at Harry. “What are you doing?”

“Teaching you that it is sometimes better to simply walk away.” Snape was still smiling that self-satisfied smirk. “Unless I need to look over your sheets as well? Perhaps see if they need to be changed more frequently?”

Harry opened his mouth to retort to that, before realizing that Snape had all but admitted that he was simply taunting Harry because he could. So Harry took the man’s advice and slipped up to the bedroom without another word, his face still burning.

Because he’d let himself be embarrassed. Was that what Snape had meant? That he’d given over power to the man by staying there and arguing? It was still just plain embarrassing to have his professor handling his dirty laundry….

But Snape didn’t care, he realized. Hell, the man had been bantering with him. Teasing Harry. Since when did Severus Snape tease anyone? Cut them to ribbons with his tongue, yes. Verbally abuse them, yes. But something as light and amicable as teasing?

Harry remembered the Scotch from earlier. Had the man been drunk? Or tipsy? What was Snape even like under the influence? Probably just like this, poking light fun at Harry about his dirty laundry, and making incoherent jokes about his sheets. What had Snape been talking about, needing to change them more frequently? He’d made that odd comment about teenaged boys, and then….

Oh. Harry snatched his pillow and buried his face in it, even though he was alone in the room and there was no one to witness his mortification. Snape had meant _that_.

God, he didn’t even do _that_ , not outside of the shower.

He really, really hoped the man was drunk. So drunk that he wouldn’t remember how easy it was to embarrass Harry.

But… Snape hadn’t been malicious about the whole thing. There had been a strange fondness to it. Like when Aunt Petunia would threaten to show pictures of her precious “Diddykins” in the bath to all of Dudley’s friends.

Snape wasn’t exactly _fond_ of Harry, though, was he? That was something of an overstatement. He was just comfortable around his ward now, and probably bored. And he’d already said that he no longer outright hated Harry. So it was only natural that the man should start to relax a bit and behave more naturally. Wearing his casual clothes, and doing household chores and all. And yes, amusing himself by latching onto Harry’s discomfort with having his clothes laundered by his professor.

All very natural, Harry decided. And he would just pretend that Snape had never gotten to him with his comments. Next time, he would take the man’s advice and walk away sooner.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Communication happens. And Snape sort of apologizes.

Snape let him go flying again. This time, though, the sky was stormy and black, and thunder was rumbling off in the distance.

“I don’t think you should go, Harry,” Snape said, though he held out Harry’s Firebolt.

Harry wanted to go. Badly. Up in the sky was where he felt safe. And Snape wasn’t stopping him. “I’ll be fine,” he promised.

“Don’t fly into the Whomping Willow,” Snape admonished, his face crumpled with worry.

Harry didn’t like the way Snape looked. He was never worried on the outside. Though now Harry realized that he was probably worried on the inside an awful lot of the time. “I won’t,” he reassured the man. “That was just because we didn’t know how to fly the Ford Anglia that one time. I know how to fly a Firebolt.”

Snape nodded, but he didn’t look convinced. 

Harry took off, and he felt the wind rush past him again as he ascended up and up and up. But suddenly the air started to grow cold, and he caught a flash of black at the edge of his vision.

Dementors! There was only one at first, hovering just at the edge of his vision, but then he chanced a look down, and there were hundreds, their black forms like ragged sheets in the wind ascending toward him. The cold was growing, and suddenly Harry was sure that he would pass out just as he had in his third year, and would plummet to the ground.

The ring, though! Snape had given him the ring, but what was the word to make the Portkey work? Something about a spy he wasn’t supposed to kiss—no, a creature he wouldn’t want to kiss….

“Spider!” he cried, but remembered too late that the key word was something in Latin, and that spider had been the answer to the Sphinx’s riddle in the maze. But there was a hook behind his bellybutton, and suddenly he was spinning away, his stomach roiling, before he landed hard on cold, damp earth, and turned to find Cedric beside him, struggling to find his feet.

“Cedric, look out!” he tried to warn the other boy, because he remembered what came next, but it was too late.

As Cedric turned, a flash of green light slammed into him and he crumpled back to the ground, limp, eyes glassy and lifeless.

“Help!” Harry cried, feeling for his ring with his thumb and finding nothing. Where was Snape? Snape was supposed to come for him, right?

Snape did not come, though, and Wormtail grabbed him and pinned him against the grave again before cutting his arm open and collecting his blood in a goblet. Harry watched as Wormtail made his way back over to the empty cauldron he’d stood up beside the other grave, and suddenly Snape was there, stirring the black pot with a long, wooden spoon.

“Snape!” Harry cried. “Sir, please, help me!”

Snape glanced up at him, lips wrinkled in disgust. “I requested we be finished with the honorifics, Potter. You can’t follow even the simplest of directions.” Snape took the cup of Harry’s blood from Wormtail and dumped it into the cauldron.

“Severus,” Harry tried, but that was even worse.

“You dare call me by my given name?” Snape hissed, whipping out his wand. “ _Silencio_!”

The spell washed over Harry, and suddenly he could no longer speak or scream. He struggled against the stone arms of the graveyard angel that held him in place, but he could not escape, only watch as Snape finished the potion to resurrect Voldemort. He added the bone of Tom Riddle Senior, and then Wormtail’s hand. The cauldron began to smoke furiously.

And then Snape was stepping back and bowing, and Voldemort was rising up from within the cauldron, his bone-bleached wand raised against Harry, a smile stretched over his alien face.

“Harry Potter,” he hissed. “You won’t escape me this time. _Crucio_!”

Harry’s bones turned molten. He cried out, twisting hard as he tried to escape the awful, unbearable pain, but there was nowhere to go and nothing to do but endure. He tried to scream for Snape, but he was still Silenced and nothing came out past his lips but grunts and screams of agony.

When it finally ended, Voldemort commanded, “Wormtail, check on him.”

But it was Snape who appeared at Harry’s side, whispering in Harry’s ear. “Foolish boy, you were supposed to tell me if you were hurt!”

Harry tried to reply that he’d meant to, but his voice was still gone.

Snape moved back from him and declared, “He’s worthless. He cannot follow even simple instructions.”

“Very well,” Voldemort sighed, his tone bored. “ _Avada kedavra!”_

Green light washed over Harry. And he woke with a start.

Sweating, shaking, tangled up in the sheets and blankets in his bed in Snape’s home. It took him several minutes to calm his racing heart, to ground himself back in reality. He’d not gone back to the graveyard. Snape had not turned against him. He was safe.

He turned his attention to Hedwig, only to find that she was gone. Of course. Out hunting, likely.

He couldn’t go back to sleep. Not yet. Rubbing his hands over his arms, Harry extracted himself from his blankets and snatched up his dressing gown from where he’d left it, slung over his trunk at the foot of his bed, then toed along the floor until he found his slippers.

He was allowed to be up. Snape had said that. Snape had also threatened Harry to not go creeping about in the middle of the night, but that had been before the Veritaserum debacle, so Harry figured Snape had changed his mind. And if not… well, the professor wouldn’t punish him, likely, just send him back to bed.

So Harry carefully made his way downstairs, robe wrapped tightly around him. He passed through the dark sitting room and into the kitchen, where he flipped the lights on and slumped down in one of the chairs at the table. He had no idea what to do to make himself feel better. Maybe he should find a book….

Harry heard the telltale creak of a floorboard somewhere off in the house, and it was then that instinct kicked in. He was up on his feet in seconds, dousing the lights and pressing himself into the corner of the room behind the fridge, the same place he’d hidden before. He didn’t quite know why. Years of living with the Dursleys, he figured, where he’d only been up in the middle of the night in the kitchen to nick food.

Moments later, Snape eased into the kitchen, wand illuminated before him. This time he moved straight to the place where Harry had pressed himself against the wall, almost as if he’d been drawn there magnetically.

Harry braced himself for a scathing remark.

Snape lowered his wand with a slight flick, extinguishing his Lumos but turning on the electric lights in the kitchen. His face, Harry noted, was lined with exhaustion and unhappy creases, but no anger, no irritation.

“A nightmare?” he guessed quietly, stepping back and angling himself so that Harry was no longer trapped in the corner.

Feeling ridiculous, Harry stepped out of the corner toward the kitchen table. “Sort of.”

Snape arched a skeptical brow at him.

Bowing his head a bit more, Harry admitted, “Okay, yeah. A nightmare.”

“Any pain in your scar?” Snape asked idly, making his way over to the stove to grab the kettle.

“No….”

Snape started to fill the kettle up from the sink. “Sit.”

Harry clenched his fists, half in anger and half in anxiety. “I really don’t want to talk about it—”

“And I won’t force you to do so.” Snape tapped his wand against the kettle, and instantly it began to whistle as steam poured out. He moved to the cabinet and retrieved two mugs, then to another cabinet and began pulling down tin after battered tin. “However, you aren’t likely to go back to bed anytime soon. So rather than sitting somewhere alone and brooding, you can share a cup of tea with me. Does that sound reasonable?”

Harry couldn’t think of a good enough reason to say no. He settled in at the table, forcing his hands down into his lap. But he found that he was too fidgety to remain like that, so he lifted a hand to brush a finger gently over the gouged, weathered wood of the table’s edge.

Snape continued to hover over at the kitchen counter, measuring out pinches of all of the various tins and adding them to each cup in a flurry of motion.

“Don’t you have tea bags?” Harry thought to ask.

“Yes, but this is a special blend for sleep.” Snape poured water into both of the mugs and carried both over to the table, placing one before Harry.

A sweet, subtle scent hit Harry’s nose—orange and pine and lavender, all seamlessly blended together. Instantaneously, he felt his muscles start to relax. He wrapped a hand around the ceramic, sighing a little to himself as the warmth started to seep into his digits.

“It’s like magic,” he mumbled before blowing across the surface and taking a small sip.

“It is, in its own way,” Snape informed him, sipping from his own cup. “It’s a potion master’s brew, infused with a very subtle amount of magic. Preparing a cup is a delicate art, and the tea itself must be drunk right away or it loses its potency.”

Harry could believe Snape, given the pleasant, soothing warmth that was beginning to unfurl through his veins. It was like a Calming Draught, but better in that it did not feel like an undertow dragging him down.

“Your mother taught me to make it.”

That snapped Harry out of his gentle reverie. “My mother? You knew my mother?”

Snape was not looking at him. He was tracing a long, pale finger along the rim of his mug, passing over and over the slightly chipped place opposite of the handle. “Yes. Since we were children. She and your aunt grew up not far from here.”

“Here?” Harry echoed numbly. In this awful little factory town? Did that mean… was this house where _Snape_ had grown up?

“A few blocks over. The area is much nicer than Spinner’s End,” he assured Harry, as if he could read Harry’s thoughts. “I will take you to see your grandparents’ house sometime, should you wish.”

“Yeah.” Harry took another gulp of his tea before replying, “I’d like that.”

They lapsed into a comfortable silence for a time, each of them sipping at the tea. Harry could feel its effects building cumulatively in him, layering over one another and warding off the chill that had rooted in him during the nightmare. Perhaps, too, it was helpful to have Snape sitting across from him, a picture so completely opposite to the dream version who’d resurrected Voldemort in a cauldron.

“Were you friends with my mum?” Harry asked after a while, stealing a glance up at the potions master.

Snape paused with his mug at his lips, a pensive look stealing over his features. “For a time,” he answered evasively, and Harry figured that there was some complicated history there that was best left alone for the time being.

They finished their tea, Harry’s limbs and eyelids growing heavier with every sip, until finally he began to doze, awakened only when his head, drooping toward the table, banged lightly against the surface and startled him back awake.

“Time to return to your bed, I believe,” Snape announced, collecting Harry’s empty mug. “Can you make it up the stairs?”

Harry opened his mouth to say he could, but in all honesty he was unsure. The marvelous tea had swept away all his fears and uncertainties, and left him in a pleasant, hazy fog. Part of him thought that he could just curl up on the floor here and be perfectly content for the rest of the night.

“Dunno. Probably not.”

Snape snorted lightly. “A half cup for you next time.”

And then the professor was at his elbow, helping him to his feet. The pressure was strong, firm, a solid presence that Harry inherently felt he could lean into should he need to. Harry stood as best he could, and tried to start the journey on his own, but eventually found that it was far easier to allow himself to be guided through the sitting room, up the stairs, into the bedroom, and up onto the bed. Harry crawled onto the mattress and fumbled around for his sheets and quilt, only to find them settling over him of their own accord. He had the mental presence still to pull off his glasses, but not the stamina to place them much further than on the pillow right next to his face, where his hand fell.

But they disappeared too, which was nice, because it made it much easier to nestle down into the softness of the mattress, and to lay his head just right against the pillow. He felt a slight movement, then a coldness at his feet—oh, the slippers. He hadn’t kicked them off.

“Thanks,” Harry mumbled, though he couldn’t remember quite who he was thanking. Someone or something was taking care of the things he was too tired to do, though, and that had never happened before. It was nice, he thought.

“Go to sleep, ridiculous boy.”

A layer of warm, shimmery magic wrapped over him. Harry could feel the webbing of the spell—light, subtle, but complete, like a blanket falling over him. “Nice,” he murmured. He felt safer somehow.

“If your sleep is disturbed again, I will be alerted.”

Harry didn’t think his sleep would be disturbed. He would fall into it easily and stay there for a long, long time. Maybe forever. “‘Kay,” he slurred.

“Pleasant dreams, Harry,” the Someone murmured.

If Harry could have summoned even an ounce of reserve energy, his lips would have twitched into an idiotic grin. No one had wished him pleasant dreams before. Or maybe they had, but he had the niggling sense that this time it was different. More meaningful, though he couldn’t quite remember how.

XXXXX

Harry decided that he would never look Snape in the eye again. Simple in theory, difficult in practice.

But hell, the man had put him to bed like a toddler the night before. How ridiculous did he find Harry now? Utterly, probably. Pity had likely transformed into scorn. God, he wasn’t ready to deal with Snape’s attitude, he really wasn’t.

Despite his resolution to truly avoid Snape from now on, he knew that remaining upstairs for the whole morning would not end well for him. He could likely snatch his breakfast and run back up the stairs, but Snape wouldn’t like that either, and would probably follow him to interrogate him. And Harry didn’t need that now.

It was nearly nine by the time he made his way down the stairs and into the kitchen, where Snape sat as he did every morning behind an unfurled copy of the Prophet, mug within easy reach of his left hand. The paper dipped when Harry tried to slide over to the counter without being noticed.

“Good morning,” he greeted Harry, neutrally as ever. “I trust you slept well?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry replied, keeping his eyes on the pan of bacon. “I—”

“What am I going to tell you, Mr. Potter?”

Harry flinched at the slight harshness underlying those words. “Two servings this morning?” he guessed.

Snape just stared. Harry knew because he could feel the man’s eyes on him.

Harry sucked in a breath, then turned, though he couldn’t bring himself to meet Snape’s eyes. “I don’t think I can do three, if that’s what you want. And besides, I’ve always had an—er, what’s it called, a high metabolism, so—”

“What have I requested for the last day, _Harry_?” Snape demanded, laying special emphasis on Harry’s name.

“Oh.” Harry laced a hand into his loose t-shirt and twisted it a bit. “Sorry. It’s… it’s a habit.”

“And one must invest effort in order to break habits.” Snape set his paper aside and stood, sweeping over to take Harry’s place in front of the stove. He piled a plate high with double servings of the bacon, eggs, and potatoes that had been laid out before shoving the plate at Harry. “High metabolism or no, you are unhealthily underweight. Oh, do stop blushing, Potter. You’re ill-suited to it.”

“It’s going to be hard to stop calling you ‘sir’ if you keep calling me ‘Potter’, you know,” Harry bit out, and immediately regretted letting his temper get the better of him.

Oddly, though, something like approval flashed in Snape’s eyes. “I only call you Potter when you are being foolish, since it is in those moments that you remind me most of Potter Senior.”

“No, you call me Potter all the time—”

“Precisely.”

Well. He’d walked into that one. “Well, I only call you sir when you’re being unbearable—”

“Not true,” Snape dismissed him, easing back into his seat at the table. Harry followed him with his overladen plate. Snape did not take his paper back up, though; his eyes remained riveted to Harry. “Your verbal habits are very telling. And very disappointing.”

Harry tried to pretend he didn’t care one bit what Snape meant by that. He couldn’t be baited.

He managed to shovel down two bites of eggs before he caved. “Disappointing how? Let me guess, my vocabulary leaves a lot to be desired?”

“You have room for growth in that area, undoubtedly. But that is not what I meant. With you, it seems overly respectful language denotes insecurity—”

“It does not! I—”

“Mm, and vehement denials of this sort are fine confirmation.” Snape took up his mug and sipped delicately from it before adding, almost offhandedly, “I suppose the disappointment mostly arises because I thought we’d broken past some of this nonsense last night.”

Last night. Harry didn’t want to talk about last night. “You drugged me or something—”

“No,” Snape countered gravely, no trace of levity in his expression. “A tea such as that requires the witch or wizard to embrace what is offered. It does not carry the same power to wipe away one’s faculties and inner resistance as a potion of the same class. You relaxed. You were at ease in my presence. And now you’ve reverted.”

“I made a fool of myself,” Harry muttered, twisting his head away. “You can’t tell me you want me—”

“Unafraid? Unhidden behind some carefully constructed mask of politeness and deference? Yes, Mr. Potter, I greatly prefer that.”

“I was just tired,” Harry insisted. “And you can’t tell me you want me to be rude—”

“I want you to stop tiptoeing!” Snape cut him off, settling his mug back onto the table with a dull thud. “Every time I feel like we’ve taken a step forward, you _insist_ on proving to me that we have not, that we have actually taken one backward. Yesterday afternoon you felt at liberty to speak your mind. Today you can scarcely stand to be in the same room with me.”

“Because you—” Harry started, but immediately clammed up.

“Because I… what?” Snape prompted, his dark eyes intent and unrelenting.

“Nothing—”

“I swear, Potter, if you insist on lying to me—”

“I’m not lying!” Harry cried, jumping up in agitation. “I’m just… look, I know what I was like last night, okay? It was pathetic, and I’m not going to let myself be that bad again—”

“You know nothing if you think ‘pathetic’ in anyway describes your conduct,” Snape fired back, rising to his feet as well.

“Right, well, I don’t know words worse than ‘pathetic’, but I’m sure you do, so lay them on me—”

“How about ‘human’?” Snape pressed, grabbing Harry firmly by the upper arm and fastening him into place. “‘Young’, perhaps? Or not as old as you’ve been trying to be? ‘Vulnerable’?”

Harry tried to shrug out of Snape’s grip. “It was just a stupid nightmare—”

“I refuse to believe that your nightmares are anything of the garden variety.” Snape’s grip tightened slightly, a reassuring squeeze, and that simple pressure was as effective as a spell, sapping the fight out of Harry. He stopped trying to twist away. “You are allowed to lean on others, Harry.”

Others. That was the word that undid him again, the word that had him twisting once more against the hand on his arm. “Except no one is ever there to lean on, are they?”

Snape just stared at him, his expression somehow conveying all that needed to be conveyed. _I was there last night._ “I am here now,” he told Harry solemnly.

Harry let loose a strangled half-laugh. “Until the end of the summer—”

“You imagine my commitment will dissolve then?”

It would. He knew it would. This was temporary. Everything was always temporary.

Snape seemed to read that belief in him. “It will not.” But he let Harry go at that, as if he knew how pointless it was to make that argument. “No more sirs.”

“Why?” Harry demanded, before he could stop the question from slipping past his lips, and he did not know what exactly he meant by it. 

“Because I am not your uncle. I am not Lupin, I am not your idiot godfather, and I am most certainly not the headmaster. You can be damned sure that when I say I will see you through this, there is nothing empty or sentimental about it.” Snape stepped in closer, bowing down slightly so that he was uncomfortably close, his face just inches from Harry’s. “And I am tired of you hiding behind empty, placating, stilted formality, as if doing so will keep me from becoming invested in you. It will not.” Snape stepped back at last.

Harry, having held himself utterly paralyzed being so close to Snape, at last inhaled in a deep breath. “I just… I’m more comfortable calling you Professor and sir.”

“Because you are afraid of me, and I will not have that. You will—”

“No, no,” Harry insisted, and when Snape’s brow furrowed deeper, he added, “Only a little, I swear. Just sometimes, because you… I don’t know. You seem like the type to poison people in their sleep and bury their bodies in your backyard.”

Snape’s lip curled in a snarl, and he opened his mouth to speak, but Harry beat him to it.

“That’s not it either, exactly. It’s more… you’re not the, uh… the patient and understanding type. And we have a history, okay? So it’s really only natural that I’m still a little wary. The titles… look, I respect you, okay—”

“Titles do not prove that to me.”

“No.” Harry slumped back into his seat, chewing his lip as he tried to reason this out to Snape. “But it _feels_ disrespectful for me to call you anything else. And…” Boy, this was hard to admit. He hadn’t even realized this much until he’d been forced to think on it. “Look, I know you probably won’t believe this, because I scarcely believe it myself, but I _do_ respect you. You’ve… helped. A lot.”

“I’ve _harmed_ a great deal as well,” Snape countered quietly, sinking back into his own chair.

Harry shrugged lightly, even though his heart fluttered a little at hearing the fierce self-condemnation in those words. He wouldn’t buy too much into Snape’s guilt, of course, because he doubted it would last. But for now… it felt nice to believe that Snape was not pleased that he’d hurt Harry.

“Before I’d only call you ‘sir’ or ‘Professor’ when someone was making me. Usually you. But now… it’s because I want to be respectful, because it feels right. It’s not because I want to disobey you, or keep you happy so you won’t wale on me.”

Snape just stared at him skeptically, as if Harry were interspersing nonsense words into his sentences. “You believe it is more respectful to continually ignore my requests and admonitions regarding _my_ preferred mode of address?”

Harry didn’t have a good response to that. So he switched tracks instead. “I’m your student. It’s not really appropriate—”

“You are my ward,” Snape cut him off calmly, his voice ringing with steel.

“Just for now—”

Snape’s derisive scoff startled him. “Very well, do what you will. Hide in your room. Refuse my help. Keep yourself well away from me. I will cease wasting my breath attempting to convince you that it is ludicrous for you to do so, and that you will only be harming yourself—”

“You’re going to change your mind!” Harry burst out. “They always do! You don’t even like me that much. I thought the Weasleys or Lupin or Sirius, or even Dumbledore… they _did_ like me, and it didn’t matter one bit, because as soon as they decided I’d done something unforgivable I turned into some misbehaving brat to them. And guess what? I’m not perfect. Sooner or later I’ll do something to royally piss you off, and then I’ll be that loathsome idiot Potter again. And I just… I’d rather not forget that.”

Harry desperately wished he could run out then. But the Sticking Charm was in full effect, so he simply ducked his head down and started shoveling food into his mouth, wondering how long it would take him to wolf it down. Hopefully not too long.

Snape did not respond at first. Maybe, Harry decided as he scarfed down his eggs, the man had finally seen sense. Maybe he would acquiesce, and they could stop this stupid charade. They got along well enough anyway, and Harry didn’t see the need to jeopardize that at all. He’d meant what he said; he actually _wanted_ to be respectful to Snape. The man had been very decent to him of late.

Snape finally did lightly clear his throat, and he waited until Harry had tentatively raised his eyes before continuing. “I am rather fond of you, actually,” Snape countered quietly, in one of his most restrained tones.

And it was at that point that Harry started choking on his bacon. He thumped a fist against his chest a few times, desperately trying to clear his airway, but even then only managed to expel spittle and a few bacon crumbs.

Snape, of course, drew his wand and waved it in one deft arc, muttering an incantation that Harry could not make out, and immediately Harry felt the obstruction in his throat vanish, though he continued to cough for a few moments before Snape pushed his juice closer to him.

Harry gratefully quaffed it, desperate for a distraction. He’d misheard Snape, he decided. Or misunderstood. Or _something_.

“Perhaps you should cease eating until we have finished this discussion,” Snape suggested dryly. “I would hate to have you suffocate in my dining room.”

“I’ll finish it for us,” Harry muttered. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. You’re confusing pity for fondness. And it’s fine because I don’t care about either, and we can get along fine without being all chummy. There, conversation finished.” Harry picked up his fork again, only to find it stuck to the table. He cast an irritated glare up at Snape. “What is your issue?”

Snape ignored him. “You are a remarkable boy. Driven, courageous, resilient. There is nothing in those traits to pity. I _admire_ you, Harry, for the way you have handled difficult circumstances—”

“No, you don’t, because I’ve annoyed the piss out of you! Don’t try to lie about it, or make it sound like you think I walk on water now. I’ve been _trying_ to stay out of your way, so of course you’ve forgotten how much you hate me—”

“I do not hate you,” Snape cut in impatiently. “As I have said—”

“How intolerable you find me,” Harry corrected himself.

“I do not find you intolerable. And even if you were to… ah, _annoy_ me, which I can assure you, you have already, on many occasions, even then… that will not change my mind. I understand now what I was too blind to see before—”

“But I’ll do something,” Harry insisted, his throat suddenly tightening again. “I’ll do something unforgivable, and you’ll go back—”

“Potter, I doubt you are capable of doing something ‘unforgivable’, for one. And for another thing, you are under the false impression that every other adult in your life turned their backs on you when they heard that you had committed some sort of crime—”

“They did!” Harry cried. “You should have seen what they wrote to me! They thought I was just awful, and then—”

“I did see,” Snape admitted quietly, his lips pursed. “And I do not mean to excuse their reactions by any means. Nor do I wish to see you distort them into something they are not.”

Harry snorted. He really wasn’t surprised that Snape had read his letters, and he found that he did not actually care all that much that the man had. “What are they _not_ , then? Because it seems to me that they’re all a pretty clear reprimand of me. I’ve _never_ done something that awful—”

“Molly Weasley has raised how many boys, Harry?”

Harry stared. And then counted in his head. “Um, six. Counting Ron.”

“And how many of those boys, do you imagine, got themselves into considerable trouble during their teenaged years?”

Well, Fred and George for sure. Not Percy. But Bill and Charlie… the way that Ron talked about them, he guessed there had been a few things that had come up. Though both had been really good students overall, and had done something impressive with their lives.

“Most of them,” Harry muttered. “But what’s that got to do with her not thinking to even _ask_ if she’d got it right—”

“Albus Dumbledore informed everyone personally that you had gotten mixed up with the Muggle police, and that you had been caught red-handed stealing from an elderly neighbor’s house. That was, after all, the information we’d gotten at the time from what we’d—wrongly—presumed to be reliable sources. My understanding is that Molly Weasley interpreted it as a bout of acting out, driven by teenaged angst, and took it upon herself to straighten you out the only way she knew how. Guilt, after all, has worked with her other boys. Lecturing and shaming is, I believe, how she would deal with any other one of her boys had they been in the same situation.”

Harry flushed a little as he remembered the Howler Ron had received their second year. Never mind that they’d actually been guilty of the crime that time…. If Harry had received a Howler like that from Petunia, he’d have been nearly sure that he was on his way to an orphanage. But for Ron, there had never been a moment of fear or doubt. And Harry had brushed it off as just one of those things that normal kids understood, that their families wouldn’t just toss them out and be done with them on a whim, or even after a major screw-up like the Ford Anglia and the Whomping Willow.

Maybe Mrs. Weasley hadn’t realized what it would feel like to Harry to get a letter like he had. But then, why hadn’t she bothered to apologize for it in the next one she’d sent? Why not even mention that she’d been wrong and that she was sorry that she’d made assumptions?

“I will not force you, but I believe it would do you good to speak to her, as well as Lupin and the mutt.” Snape’s lips curled disdainfully around the last two he named. “Perhaps they will be more forthcoming with apologies in person.”

“Lupin and Sirius….”

“Lupin, to my understanding, largely expressed his concern for you and your lack of support following last year’s tragedy.”

Harry turned his attention back to his plate, wishing he could seize his fork and use it to mash his eggs into oblivion. “Funny that he didn’t care one whit before, when I was literally facing down a dragon….”

“Yes,” Snape hissed, and Harry was surprised to hear that the man’s ire did not, for once, seem to be directed at him. “Believe me, I am just as disgusted as you at his prolonged absence from your life.”

Harry wetted his lips, and then forced out, “But it’s like you said before, he’s… he’s had his own issues to contend with—”

“Issues that occupy perhaps three days of his month, thanks in no small part to his supply of a very complex potion that I spend three days of _my_ month brewing. Leaving him with twenty-seven or so days to put quill to parchment.” Snape exhaled heavily, and angled his head away, toward the sink. “I regret having implied that he, or the Weasleys or the m—your _godfather_ —could not have made time for you. You certainly deserved better from them… from all of us. I….” Snape drew another deep breath, one that caused his chest and shoulders to rise and fall dramatically. Then he continued, “I did not appreciate having my failings pointed out in that particular moment, and I reacted poorly. For that I apologize.”

Harry felt as though someone had ripped his chair out from underneath him and left him to tumble to the floor. Except that sensation of falling through space with nothing to clutch onto did not leave him.

“You….” He swallowed thickly. “You didn’t really owe me anything, though, did you,” he stammered. “Not like….”

“To your mother, yes. She was a dear friend, and her death… I swore an oath to protect you. And I did not take that oath seriously. I regretted and resented the burden it imposed. And you suffered deeply as a result.”

It was unreal to hear pain in Snape’s voice. Pain and regret. Harry hated it, hated the way it speared through him and pierced through any semblance of distance he’d been building up between them. It made him want to fix it. “I should have said something, though—”

“Christ, Harry, do you want to set me off again?” Snape growled, and the intensity and sudden heat of his tone caught Harry entirely off guard. “You were not responsible for any part of that miserable situation, do you understand?”

“I… but you said—”

“Forget what I said!” Snape interrupted him. “I was out of sorts and what I said was inexcusable.”

“It wasn’t untrue,” Harry pointed out in a small voice. It hadn’t been. Snape acted as if he’d made awful accusations or something, when all he’d really done had been to point out reasonable, indisputable facts. “Mrs. Weasley—she does have a lot of other things going on, and Sirius—”

“Merciful Merlin, perhaps I should have Obliviated you! I told myself that you wouldn’t take it to heart, that you would rally… Harry, you are deserving of others’ care and attention, even when it is inconvenient to them. Even when there are flimsy excuses as to why they could not have taken a few moments to consider you and your character and decide that what they’d heard, even from the great Albus Dumbledore, was highly suspect.”

Harry didn’t respond. He didn’t know how to. Snape was… defending him. Snape was upset on his behalf. Snape was _fond_ of him.

“I will not have you taking on the blame for others’ failings. Nor will I have you parroting the asinine excuses I threw out in response to my own sense of responsibility and failure.” Snape raised a hand to the bridge of his nose and rubbed at it lightly. “None of us, least of all myself, expect you to be perfect. When you do something to—now, what was your phrasing? ‘Royally piss me off?’ When that inevitably occurs, there will be consequences, and I promise that I will at least be cross with you for a time. But one misstep, deliberate or not, is by no means a reason for me to wash my hands of you. I swore I would help you, did I not?”

Harry nodded faintly into his breakfast plate.

“Do you doubt my sincerity?”

“No.” Not anymore. Snape… he’d been good. Feeding Harry, and letting him go flying, and helping him get back to sleep, and even making him write out answers to all those letters…. And now he was admitting to having said things he regretted. Admitting it far after the fact, when he wasn’t being pressed to do so at all, but rather because he regretted what he’d said.

“Good. So we are agreed that my commitment to you is sound, and will not revert at the slightest misstep on your part. You will stop worrying excessively about this, just as you will stop believing that you are in any way at fault for the responsible adults in your life being less than responsible, or outright negligent. And finally, you will cease calling me ‘sir’ and ‘Professor’ until classes resume, else I will assign you a lengthy essay exploring your tendency to hide your vulnerability behind formality and decorum. Am I understood?”

Again, Harry found himself just staring. The first set of directives was a lot to swallow, but Harry figured he’d try to do as Snape asked (commanded) and push his worries to the side. But the last bit….

“Are you serious about—about the essay bit?”

Snape locked eyes with Harry, his dark gaze intense. “Extremely. There will be consequences for disobedience, as I have already stated. A shift in perspective does not mean that you get a free pass going forward—”

“I get _that_ ,” Harry insisted, though he couldn’t help but recognize that hearing Snape say as much made him feel better. Pity would mean that Snape would tiptoe around him and go easy on him. But clearly the man didn’t really pity him, as he’d said, since he was still being pretty strict and unyielding about a lot of things.

“And I am hardly about to take you out back and switch you, or enact any kind of physical punishment. The points system is, lamentably, suspended until term resumes, so I will have to rely on corrective methods that might actually force you to _learn_ something. So, unless you wish to have even more summer homework, you will make an effort to break that particular verbal habit.”

“But if I’m not comfortable calling you—”

“I never made that a requirement,” Snape cut him off, his eyes flashing a bit—a reminder to Harry to think before he spoke, likely. “It was a suggestion, and will remain just that.”

“But if I don’t use your given name, and I can’t call you ‘sir’, how am I supposed to address you? I mean, you hate it when I use just your family name—”

“You may call me ‘Snape’,” the man conceded, though he looked less than pleased by the prospect. “I recognize the need for compromise and middle ground, especially on this issue. I prefer ‘Severus’, as I have said, but I do wish for you to be comfortable. But no honorifics. Are we agreed at least upon that point?”

Harry nodded. He was struck by the way Snape had made an effort to meet him halfway, even when he had no real incentive to do so. “It still feels disrespectful, though….”

“Respect starts with intention, does it not?”

Harry glanced up at Snape, who seemed to be trying to convey a double message with this particular question. That he respected Harry now? That he would assume Harry’s intentions were respectful, unless otherwise indicated, from now on?

“I suppose.”

Snape drew another deep breath, then pulled out his wand and uttered a quick _finite incantatum_. Harry felt the Sticking Hex release, much to his surprise. “Speaking of respect… I would like to be done with these games. Can I trust you understand the importance of proper nutrition, and that you will accept my guidance and directives on your eating habits until you are in a healthier state?”

Harry figured that was Snape-talk for ‘will you clean your plate like a good boy if I stop hexing you?’. “Yeah. Um, but sometimes I’m not as hungry, right? It’s not that I’m trying to be defiant or anything, I just can’t physically get it down.”

Snape grimaced. “I will endeavor to listen to you and respect your input. But absolutely _no_ skipped meals.”

Harry nodded vigorously. “No skipped meals, I promise.”

“Good. As for… other restrictions. Obviously I have lifted the Grounding Spell, so that you might go flying again. But you are not to climb up on the roof, do you hear me? If I find you up there—”

“I won’t,” Harry promised hastily. “I swear. I… I was just trying to irritate you. I promise I won’t do it again.”

Snape’s mouth curled up in a faint, wry smile. “Oh, I am certain you will manage to irritate me again. But if you could refrain from sending me into cardiac arrest, I would be much obliged.”

God. It _had_ been panic he’d seen on Snape’s face. Suddenly he felt much, much worse about that stunt. “It’s a lot safer than being on a broom—”

“Not a wise argument to make, Mr. Potter.” Snape reached across the table and touched his wand to Harry’s plate, which suddenly began to steam again. “Let us say, no unnecessary risks unless we have both agreed upon the parameters and implemented safety measures.” Snape gestured loosely to Harry’s meal, indicating he should finish.

“Wait, so—if you were to cast those charms again over the yard, could I get back up there to finish the roof?”

Snape’s face twisted in a look of utter perplexity. “You… _wish_ to work on the roof?”

“Well… it’s half-finished. It looks a mess. And it’s no good, especially if it rains anytime soon—”

“I’ve cast Impervious Charms over the house,” Snape informed him patiently. “There is no need—”

“Well, it still looks a mess. And it’s nice to have projects to work on. And the work’s not so bad, really, once you get into it.”

Snape still did not look convinced, but the perplexity had settled into a look of intense contemplation. “We will revisit this later today,” he announced after a few moments. “When we can talk about the measures we might put in place, and my conditions. For now, finish your breakfast so we can be on our way. I imagine you’d rather not keep your friends waiting.”

Harry’s heart leapt. They were going to see Ron and Hermione right away? He’d expected a short visit in the afternoon or something.

His heart turned fluttery again as the truth of the situation sank in. Snape _didn’t_ want him to be miserable. He was fine with doing things for Harry, like figuring out how his ward could get some flying time in, or getting Harry out to visit his friends. And being willing to listen to Harry, and compromise where they could.

And he’d known Harry’s mother. So maybe the man was remembering Lily more now, and not thinking of James quite so much. It sounded as though he’d really liked Lily.

So maybe—and Harry was afraid to even think this, even in the deepest, most secret place of his mind, because the Universe loved to prove him wrong—but maybe things would be all right. Maybe being dumped with Snape would actually turn out to be a positive thing.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grimmauld Place and a botany lesson.

“Read.”

Harry stopped craning his neck to take in the neighborhood around him, and instead turned his attention to the tiny slip of paper that Snape had thrust before his place.

In looping, vaguely familiar script, it read, _The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix is located at Number 12 Grimmauld Place_. Harry glanced up questioningly at Snape, but as he did he caught something shifting in the corner of his eye. Between two of the narrow brownstone homes lining the opposite side of the street, a third house was emerging, seemingly shoving the other two to the side as it grew into the widening gap between them.

When Snape had Apparated them to this seemingly nondescript London neighborhood, Harry had thought the man was having a laugh at his expense, possibly at last revealing his true colors after so many days of being _nice_. But now, seeing a building emerge from thin air before his eyes, he suddenly doubted that was the case.

“The Order of—?”

“Not here,” Snape hissed, cutting him off as he shoved the piece of paper back into the voluminous robes he’d once again donned. “Inside—quickly!”

And with that the man was propelling Harry forward, one unrelenting hand on his back, until they’d climbed the dilapidated stairs to face the door.

There was no door handle. Or key hole. Only a silver knocker that, upon closer inspection, appeared to be a serpent twisted in on itself a few times.

Snape sighed behind him, presumably at Harry’s paralysis, and brushed past him to bang the knocker three times.

A feminine shriek erupted from somewhere within the house; Harry stumbled back, only to be pushed back into his original position by Snape.

Suddenly the door swung inward, revealing a flinching Remus Lupin, dressed as shabbily as ever in a worn tan and white seersucker suit. As soon as the door opened, the shrieking poured out onto the stoop, no longer muffled by the heavy wooden door.

“DISGUSTING FLEA-RIDDEN HALFBREED, YOU _DARE_ TO TREAD THE HALLS OF THE HALLOWED HOUSE OF BLACK—”

“Pull the curtain!” came the familiar voice of one Fred Weasley. Or possibly George.

“ _You_ pull the sodding curtain!” came the indignant reply from George, or possibly Fred. “I did it _last_ time, didn’t I? And got bit by a doxy for it—”

“BLOOD TRAITORS IN _MY_ HOME, WRETCHED WASTES OF MAGIC, BEGONE—”

Lupin whipped around, firing off a quick spell, and amidst some shuffling and a thud the screaming woman fell quiet.

Lupin turned back to them, something of an abashed smile on his lips. “Er, sorry about that. Still working on a solution to that little problem.”

“How fortunate we are to have a foremost expert on the Dark Arts attending to the matter,” Snape drawled, pushing Harry inside before stepping around him and straight past Lupin. “I’ve brewing to see to and require uninterrupted use of the kitchen for four hours. I will not be responsible for my actions if I am disturbed.” Snape turned back partially to Harry, his features impassive. “Mr. Potter, if you have need of me during that time I merely request you call down before entering. Though I will likely regret it, I will leave the task of answering any questions you might have to those you intended to visit today, unless you inform me you prefer it otherwise. Is that acceptable?”

Harry struggled to formulate an answer. Had Snape really designated him as someone—the only person, even—allowed to interrupt his brewing? That was what it sounded like…. “Um, yes sir.”

Snape’s eyebrows crept up a bit in silent admonishment, and Harry recalled their agreement. But the man had called him Mr. Potter! And they were in public, weren’t they? Surely he didn’t want Harry replying casually, ‘sure, Snape, got it’.

But the potions master said nothing aloud. “Keep yourself out of trouble, then.” And with that he was sweeping off down the hall of the house, past a stunned Fred and George, who hastily moved to press against a long velvet curtain on one wall to make room for Snape to pass them by.

Lupin, too, seemed to be lost for words. He was staring after Snape, his mouth slightly ajar, and remained that way for a moment before snapping his jaw shut and turning back to Harry.

“Harry, it’s good to see you,” he greeted the boy warmly, his expression breaking into a smile. “Come in, come in—sorry about the unorthodox greeting there, we weren’t expecting you—”

“Snape didn’t tell you I was coming by… er, here?” Harry demanded, moving to clasp his hands behind his back. There, that felt better.

A rosy blush colored Lupin’s face. “Oh, yes, he said… but we thought he’d come up with some excuse for keeping you away. He can be a bit prickly—you know how Severus is—”

For some reason that comment lit a fire in Harry. “No, Professor, I’m afraid I don’t know,” Harry retorted coldly. “Usually when Snape says something, he means it. Unlike some people. He said he’d let me visit my friends, and here I am. Unless they aren’t here?”

Lupin’s blush deepened. “Ah, Harry, I’m not your professor anymore. But Severus is, so perhaps you should use his title—no sense in pointlessly upsetting him if you slip—"

Feeling rather vindictive, Harry retorted, “He told me to call him Severus, actually.”

Lupin just blinked at him once, twice in disbelief. “He….”

“But I’m probably lying about that, so don’t worry, sir. I’ll call him ‘Professor Snape’ from here on out. Are Ron and Hermione here?”

“I don’t think you’re lying, Harry,” Lupin replied quietly, his voice sincere. “But do you even know where you are? I know that we’d all been instructed to tell you nothing just in case, but Albus agreed you could be brought here—though that was just last night, I understand, so I can’t imagine Severus has had a chance to tell you all that much—”

“I’m sure Ron and Hermione can catch me up,” Harry interrupted tersely. “I can go find them if you don’t want to help—”

“Harry,” Lupin murmured, his voice breaking a little, “what is the matter? I know you’ve had a rough time of it—believe me, between your relatives and then being forced to stay with Severus—”

“Snape has been fine, like I said. He apologized to me, actually, once he found out about the mix-up with the police.” _Unlike you_ , he stopped himself from saying.

To Harry’s surprise, Lupin actually seemed to find relief in that. “Good. I’d worried… and Albus refused to hear my arguments…. You’ve been all right then, more or less? Severus has been treating you well?”

Hadn’t he just said that? Was Lupin deaf? “Yeah. Look, sir, I only have a few hours—"

“Harry, what is it?” Lupin begged, exasperated. “Clearly you’re upset with me. Has Severus said something—?”

“No, he didn’t,” Harry replied tersely. “I’d just rather catch up with my friends—”

“Have I done something?” Lupin pressed, his voice oh-so-gentle and understanding.

Harry just glared.

“Harry, if you would just tell me….”

“It’s more of what you didn’t do.” Fed up and unwilling to dig into this particular topic too deeply, Harry pushed his way around Lupin and tried to take in the layout of the strange house.

The entrance hall was somewhat narrow, and led to a once-eloquent staircase at the back that now suffered from neglect. The paint was peeling, the wood comprising the structure was gouged and dilapidated in places, and even the once-ornate rug that led down the hall and up the stairs was wearing down, its patterns faded. Like the knocker, many of the decorations in the hall seemed to be serpentine, including the sconces along the hall that housed gas-lamps. Perhaps most prominent was the massive chandelier that hung from the ceiling, so layered in dust that it had lost a degree of its crystalline appearance.

It was a strange place. Harry wondered what it was that led him to so many poorly-maintained old houses this summer. This one, he decided, was worse than Spinner’s End, simply because bits and pieces of it reminded him of the dreams of another old manor he’d been having the summer before his fourth year.

“Perhaps we could talk,” Lupin began. “We could have a spot of tea in the dining room—”

“No thanks,” Harry muttered. Well, he could just start up the stairs and go floor by floor. And if that failed… maybe Snape wouldn’t kill him if Harry just nipped in for a moment to ask a few basic questions.

“Maybe later—”

“Maybe,” Harry echoed, though without any conviction.

“Sirius is upstairs—”

Harry’s fists clenched. “Okay,” he forced out.

“He was looking forward to seeing you—”

“Sure.” Harry glanced down to the left and the right at the foot of the stairs. He couldn’t tell where either direction led, but he thought it might be worthwhile to start down here and then start making his way upward.

He’d turned slightly to the left when he heard a loud _crack_ and suddenly found his left arm pinned to his side by a strong grip. Another _crack_ and he found his right arm pinned in the same manner, and himself wedged between the two tall, gangly, and surprisingly robust Weasley twins.

“Hey, get off,” he started, beginning to twist in their grip—but not too hard. He figured they just wanted him for some prank or another, and that if he protested enough they’d back off. “Is that any way to greet a bloke?”

To his surprise, the twins’ expressions remained solemn. “Easy, there, Harry,” George (or possibly Fred, in George’s monogrammed sweater) commanded him in a soothing tone. “We just need to check on something, all right?”

“Walk with us a bit, yeah?” Fred added, as together they started to propel him up the staircase.

“I’m not eating anything you two give me,” Harry declared, shooting a mock-stern glare at the both of them. “I know better.”

“ ‘Course, Harry,” George agreed easily. “We just want to have Hermione check on something, yeah?”

Harry furrowed his brow in confusion. “Um, okay. But you don’t have to drag me—”

“We’re not so much dragging—” George began.

“—as escorting,” Fred finished for him. “Don’t you worry about it.” They’d reached the next floor by then, and turned down a hall, past two doors and into the third door on the right, which opened into a small, dusty library.

Ron, Hermione, and Ginny were all sitting around a small coffee table, Hermione watching an ongoing game of checkers between Ron and Ginny. All three twisted to see him as soon as they entered.

“Harry!” Hermione cried, and jumped to her feet.

Ron’s face lit up with a dopey grin as he scrambled up as well. Ginny just cast him a shy smile and waved a little with her fingers before getting up and slipping out of the room. 

Hermione was almost within hugging distance when Fred extended a hand in front of him. The twins still hadn’t let Harry go.

Hermione’s face crumpled in incomprehension. “What is it?”

“He’s been with Snape,” Fred explained gravely, glancing over at George.

“And he was acting funny—”

“I was not!” Harry protested. “What are you even talking about?”

“Wouldn’t even talk to Lupin,” Fred continued, as if Harry hadn’t said a word. Hermione’s eyes were darting rapidly between the two of them, her lips pursing tighter with each passing second.

“We think Snape did something to him,” said George.

“A spell.”

“Or a potion,” they concluded in unison.

“You’re mad,” Harry exclaimed. “Snape didn’t do any of that—”

“Mate,” Ron interjected, his voice soft and serious. “You’ve been with him for weeks. He _hates_ you. He could have done anything to you. If Fred and George think you’re acting funny… there are things out there, you know. Subtle things, but they can mess with you.”

“Like a Potion of Subversion,” Hermione murmured, her eyes now scanning rapidly up and down Harry’s form. “But Professor Snape wouldn’t dare to give Harry anything of the sort. Professor Dumbledore—”

“Dumbledore trusts Snape,” Ron argued, “even though he probably shouldn’t. You know the rumors about him, from the last War….”

Harry could guess well enough what _rumors_ Ron was referring to, and he could barely restrain himself from retorting that they were true, but it didn’t _matter_ , because Snape was decent, as it turned out, even if he could still be a git from time to time.

“Snape didn’t give me anything. I would know.” Harry swallowed thickly. “And I didn’t want to talk to Lupin.”

“Lupin, Harry?” Ron demanded. “Remus Lupin? The only decent Defense professor we’ve ever had? The Lupin who likes you, the Lupin who’s mates with Sirius, _that_ Lupin?” He turned to Hermione. “That slimy bastard _did_ do something to mess with Harry’s mind—”

“He didn’t!” Harry tried to shake off Fred and George, but they still wouldn’t budge. “Why would he? And Hermione’s right. Dumbledore trusts him, and I trust Dumbledore—”

“Dumbledore left the _Sorcerer’s Stone_ in an obstacle course that we got through our _first year_!” Ron pointed out. “He left the school open when a bloody _basilisk_ was slithering about petrifying people! He—” Ron stopped, glanced at his brothers, and then continued in a quieter voice, “You remember what all happened with Sirius and Buckbeak, and then _last_ year… he bloody lets you get teleported away to a bloody graveyard with You-Know-Who! He let a _Death Eater_ teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, thought it was some world-class Auror he’d known all his life! I love Dumbledore and all, don’t get me wrong, but sometimes the man is barmy, and sometimes he’s just plain wrong!”

“But not about this,” Harry insisted. “Look, if you don’t believe me, just have Hermione cast some spell on me that will let you know if I’m not acting of my free will.” He turned expectantly to Hermione.

“I don’t know a spell like that!” she cried. “Why do you think that every time you need a spell, I’ll just happen to have it memorized—”

“You’re brilliant, Hermione,” Ron interrupted. “If you don’t know it, you can find it.”

“Just because you want the spell to exist doesn’t mean that it _does_! Have you ever heard of such a spell? Hm?”

“No,” Ron admitted. “Have you?”

Hermione pinkened just slightly. “Well, yes, as it so happens, I was doing a bit of supplemental reading for Charms—but this doesn’t mean that every time you need a quick and easy solution to your latest problem—”

“Right,” Ron agreed, but he wasn’t looking at Hermione, but at Harry with raised eyebrows.

Fifteen or so minutes later, after perusing _Five-hundred and Seven Charms and Countercharms any Witch (or Wizard) Should Know,_ Hermione had cast three separate Revealing Charms over Harry, one for potions, one for spells, and one for cursed objects that would influence the subject’s thinking. All three turned up nothing.

Harry was ashamed to admit that he was more than a little relieved at those results. And not just because Fred and George finally let his arms go.

“Do you believe me now?” he demanded, plopping down into one of the room’s dusty armchairs.

Ron and Hermione settled onto the sofa; Fred and George hung back , their arms folded over their chests.

“Yes.” Ron shifted a bit closer to Hermione, probably thinking that he was being subtle about it. Hermione let him. “But then, I don’t get it. What do you have against Lupin? He was great! And he’s been really worried about you, you know.”

Harry sighed. “Because he was just like your mum. He just… he lit right into me in the letter he sent. Like Sirius, too. I just… I guess I thought I’d get at least the benefit of the doubt.”

“You did steal Mr. Weasley’s Ford Anglia and fly it into the Whomping Willow,” Hermione pointed out helpfully. “And you’ve gotten into trouble before—”

“But not for stealing from some helpless old lady!” Harry protested. “All those other times—yeah, okay, I admit it. I’ve done stupid, illegal things—and some of those things you two have done with me! But we always had a reason, right? It wasn’t ever just for fun—”

“You snuck into Hogsmeade—”

“Because I just wanted to be normal, for once in my bloody life! I wanted to go to the candy store and the joke shop, and I had an invisibility cloak and a map of the castle. Fred and George have done it loads of times—”

“Without an invisibility cloak,” George put in, while Fred nodded proudly.

“I put myself in danger. But no one else! This… neither of you believed I could have stolen from my elderly neighbor, right? That there were no circumstances, none, where I’d do anything that awful. Right?”

“Right,” Hermione and Ron agreed in unison.

“But they didn’t. Lupin taught me for a whole year. He gave me extra lessons, and he still thought I was a criminal. And Sirius… we’ve been writing back and forth and he still doesn’t get me. He thinks I’m some more reckless version of my dad, and I’m not.”

“Mum just gets carried away,” Ron mumbled, his face bright-red with shame. Probably more of those memories of what his mother had written to Harry. “She doesn’t mean anything by it. That’s how she always deals with these two. Sends them Howlers and makes empty threats.”

“Thirteen, going for fourteen this year,” Fred declared, as if announcing a world record in sprinting that he intended to break.

“And not all of those threats are empty, little brother,” George added, with a wink. “You’d do well to remember that.”

Harry shrugged. “But it’s different. I’m not her son—”

“Oh, as good as,” Ron protested.

“No, I’m not!” Harry huffed. “Listen, she’s great, your mum. She’s really been nice to me. But she’s not my parent. She’s never acted like one, not really.” A lie. Harry’s mind flashed back to that hug in the hospital wing, the warm crush of Mrs. Weasley’s arms after he’d returned from the graveyard. That had been pretty parental. But Harry chose to ignore it. “She’s like a nice aunt. But I’ve never had her the way you do. She….” _Doesn’t make me do my homework. Doesn’t sit up with me after I’ve had a nightmare. Doesn’t embarrass me with my dirty laundry or tell me to change the sheets, or patiently explain to me how to send things to my wizard vault._ “It’s just not the same,” Harry finished lamely, unable to find the words he needed to explain.

Ron chewed on his bottom lip as they all sat in silence for a few uncomfortable moments. “Yeah,” he agreed. “I guess… I guess that was her starting to act like a parent, but out of the blue. Like, she doesn’t need to be sticking her nose into things, especially when she doesn’t know the full story.” Ron rubbed a palm idly against his jeans. “But she did say she’d heard the whole story, and that she’d invited you out to the Burrow. Did you get that letter?”

“Yeah,” Harry sighed. “Snape won’t let me go, though. Says it isn’t safe.”

“Complain to Dumbledore,” Ron suggested. “I can’t imagine the great git wants to keep you around. I bet he’s already bored with tormenting you—”

“He’s been decent, actually,” Harry interrupted, feeling like a broken record. How many times would he have to repeat that today? “We mostly keep out of each other’s way. And he’s good about making sure I have what I need, and that I don’t miss meals.”

“Right,” Ron snorted. “I bet he penalizes you if you show up late, right? Just like class? Only there aren’t any points… hmm….”

“No,” Harry muttered. “He doesn’t care when I show up, as long as I have three meals.”

“You do look… well, better than you usually do,” Hermione commented, a small smile on her lips.

Harry returned the smile. “It’s weird, but staying with him… it’s like I’ve said. It’s not all that bad. Still bizarre, but… I think he’s going to let me visit you guys a bit, as long as I _ask_.” Harry made a face at that.

“Oh, bet he gets all smarmy about _that_ ,” Ron muttered, rolling his eyes.

“Uh, no. He just… he’ll make me ask about it specifically, even if he already knows what I want. Like for today.”

“Is he really particular about how you ask?” Hermione inquired curiously. “I could see him being a bit… difficult.”

“No. Just… it’s important that I ‘vocalize my needs’, as he put it.” Harry blushed when he noticed the twins exchanging a puzzled glance. “I don’t want to talk about it. It’s just annoying, trust me.”

“Sure,” Ron agreed, his eyes following Harry’s. “Oi, don’t you two have some experiments to be getting on with?”

The twins’ eyebrows crept up at Ron’s question. “Oh, yes,” George agreed. “Now that you mention it….”

“Plenty to be getting on with, indeed,” Fred chimed in, sidling away from the wall. “Good seeing you Harry.”

“Glad you’re not cursed.”

Twin cracks echoes throughout the room as the pair vanished from sight.

Ron groaned. “Bloody Apparition. They’ve been driving us all up a wall. Can’t wait until _I’m_ of age. Bloody Apparate right on top of _their_ beds, I will….”

Harry snorted, then laughed. And suddenly he found he couldn’t stop laughing, because somehow everything seemed to be dawning on him at once. He was with Ron and Hermione, and everything was all right. They didn’t hate him. They didn’t blame him for what had happened in the graveyard.

He wasn’t alone. Not really.

“Harry?” Ron asked nervously, when Harry had begun to clutch at his sides, which were aching from the force of his laughter. “You all right there?”

Harry nodded through his hysterical giggles. Then shook his head, as his giggles started to dissolve, bizarrely, into tears.

“Harry,” Hermione murmured, touching a hand to his arm. “What’s the matter? What is it?”

“I’m just really, really glad to be here,” Harry choked out. “This is the most normal I’ve felt since… God, since forever.”

Hermione’s expression turned sympathetic, while Ron relaxed a little bit, his features melting into an understanding look.

“Where are we, anyway?” Harry demanded, starting to calm a bit from the fit. He wiped his cheeks hastily.

“You don’t know?” Ron asked, stunned. “Snape didn’t tell you?”

“No. But I didn’t really ask questions much—”

“And we’re not supposed to speak of it outside of the Fidelius,” Hermione interrupted, with a pointed look at Ron. “It’s Sirius’ house, Harry. The Black family house. It’s the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix.”

“Snape told me that,” Harry confessed. “But he didn’t explain. He said he’d leave it up to you guys to tell me….”

“Pfft.” Ron rolled his eyes. “Typical. Too busy for blasted Potter—”

“No,” Harry sighed in frustration. “Not like that. He said I could go talk to him if I wanted, but I think he figured I’d rather spend the time catching up with you guys.” Harry leaned back into the sofa. “And I told him I would.”

“Of course you would,” Ron agreed. “Why would you spend more time with that miserable git than you had to?”

Harry didn’t feel like arguing with Ron, so he let the comment pass. But he didn’t miss the way Hermione’s gaze suddenly sharpened on him. “So what is it? I get that it’s a secret, but not much else….”

“Oh, well, the Order’s this secret group Dumbledore founded the first time when You-Know-Who was around,” Ron began. “Because You-Know-Who was infiltrating the Ministry and everything, so they had to get together without anyone knowing. Your parents were in the Order the first time around, and Sirius and Lupin too. And my mum and dad, and Neville’s parents, and a bunch of others. And they’re getting it together again now, you know, since He’s back and all. And since Sirius is on the lam and has his house here, he told everyone they could use it for meetings.”

“Oh,” Harry mumbled, a little dumbstruck. “So… that’s probably where Snape’s been going… but wait, why the _hell_ didn’t you tell me something like this existed? I’ve been sitting on my hands all summer, worried sick about what we’re going to do now that Voldemort’s”—Harry pointedly ignored Ron’s wince—“back, and all this time—”

“Harry,” Hermione broke in, her voice pitched high and her tone tight, “we _couldn’t_ tell you! Dumbledore forbade it! He didn’t know if your post would be intercepted, and there are all kinds of moles in the Ministry now who’d just _jump_ at the chance to bring information like that to You-Know-Who—”

“Would you call him Voldemort?” Harry groused, his temper hardly appeased. “Ron I get, but your parents are Muggles.”

“It’s just… honestly, it’s just the norm, you know, not saying his name. They don’t even write it in the books—”

“Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself,” Harry quoted dutifully.

“Fine,” Hermione sputtered, “V-Voldemort. Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Harry muttered sarcastically. “Anyway, fine. You couldn’t trust the post. I just….” Harry sighed. “I didn’t know what to think when you wouldn’t write about anything more serious than the weather or de-Gnoming the garden.”

“We wanted to tell you,” Hermione murmured, frowning. “Truly. But now that You—now that Voldemort’s back”—Harry could not help but admire that she said the name without flinching this time—“we have to think about everything we do and everything we say.”

Harry rubbed his palm tiredly against his forehead. “Fine. Right. So how do we know this place is even safe? You know what happened with Pettigrew—”

“Dumbledore’s Secret Keeper,” Ron cut him off gravely. “If they get to Dumbledore, mate, we’re all lost.”

Harry couldn’t help but agree. “Well,” he began, trying to force false cheer into his voice, “we’re all here now. So tell me….”

And there was enough to tell that all three failed to hear Molly Weasley calling them down to lunch.

XXXXX

Harry forced himself to inhale deeply three times, and to breathe out through his nose in the exhalation, before knocking once on the kitchen door. His stomach still churned uneasily from the minor argument he’d had with Ron. And from the lie he’d told. A white lie, but it didn’t sit well with him to lie at all to his best mate.

But Ron hadn’t wanted to let the matter drop. He’d wanted Harry to come with them down to lunch. Harry had begged off, claiming that he’d eaten a large breakfast (not untrue) and wasn’t hungry (somewhat untrue). He’d done his best to pretend that it had nothing to do with Mrs. Weasley serving it, or Lupin and Sirius being in attendance.

Ron hadn’t been convinced. He’d initially tried to gently persuade Harry to give them all a chance to apologize; Harry had begged off again. Ron had taken offense, thinking it was his mother alone that had upset Harry, and they’d exchanged a few terse words. Harry had repeated that he wasn’t hungry and that he needed to ask Snape a question. “Need” was probably a bit too strong of a word, but it had gotten him out of the ill-fated luncheon.

Now, of course, he found himself wondering in a panic if Snape would have an issue with Harry’s definition of “need”, and if he would be cross at having been disturbed for, more or less, no reason at all.

“Enter,” came the brusque command from the other side. Not terribly promising.

Harry slipped into the room, and was a bit startled to find himself in a kitchen transformed rather handily into a fully-stocked potions laboratory. Snape had jars of ingredients lining the countertop near the sink, and on the far wall stood three simmering cauldrons. Snape himself was hovering over a fourth, on the rudimentary dining table, a pestle and mortar to one side and a silvered knife to the other. The Potions Master glanced up briefly from his stirring, his eyes flickering rapidly over Harry, before falling back to his task.

“Problem?” he inquired, his left hand feeling gently along the table for a few clippings of a needled plant that Harry didn’t recognize. The man’s eyes remained trained on the substance bubbling within his cauldron.

“No, sir. Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt—"

“Harry.” The man’s tone was heavy with admonition.

“You called me ‘Mr. Potter’ earlier,” he accused the man feebly.

“Because you expressed to me that you wished for me not to use your given name.” Snape sprinkled a few of the needles into the cauldron, and quite suddenly the smoke changed to a bright lavender for a few seconds before clearing. Snape immediately set to stirring it in what looked to be an extremely complex pattern. “And while I will not refrain from doing so when we are at home, as I think it would be detrimental for the both of us, I did think to respect your wishes in public.”

“Oh,” Harry mumbled, a blush creeping up from his neck and prickling his cheeks. “Um. Actually… look, I was a bit, um, upset when I said that. I didn’t mean it, really.”

Snape did not look up, but he did quirk an eyebrow. “You most certainly _did_ mean it,” he disagreed mildly.

“Okay,” Harry conceded, “I did _then_ , but not anymore. I… I wouldn’t mind you calling me Harry.”

“And I would prefer not to be addressed as your professor, as I made perfectly clear not long ago.”

The reprimand hit Harry hard, even though it, too, had been delivered in that same mild, almost bland tone. “I’m sorry. I didn’t… it’s just, we’re in public, and I didn’t think you’d appreciate me just… I don’t know. It feels even more disrespectful with people around.”

Snape stirred his cauldron twice more before carefully removing the stirring stick and laying it to the side. He wiped both hands quickly on his surcoat before returning his full, piercing attention to Harry. “It is an adjustment for both of us,” he agreed. “Perhaps reserving more familiar modes of address for home is not a bad idea for the time being.”

Harry felt his stomach unclench. Snape was compromising with him. It shouldn’t matter this much, but it did. “If you don’t mind.”

“I’m amenable. Now, what brought you down here?” Snape curled a lip. “Did the mutt give you fleas?”

Harry’s lips lifted in a half-smile at that remark. Some things, he thought, would never change. “No,” he mumbled. “Haven’t seen Sirius.”

The rancor faded from Snape’s expression. “I believe you know my opinion on that matter.”

“I’ll see him before I leave.”

Snape reached into a pocket and drew out a watch; his brow furrowed at whatever he saw there. “Have you had lunch yet?”

“No. I actually… I came to see if you were going to eat anything.”

For a moment Snape’s features expanded with pure shock, the habitual lines disappearing as his raised brow and slightly distended mouth drew the skin taut. Then his expression abruptly faded back into neutral as Snape seemed to regain control over himself. “What do you mean, if I was going to eat anything?”

Harry suppressed an exasperated sigh. “You know, for lunch. You have to eat too, right?”

“Do you believe that it is _your_ job to regulate _my_ mealtimes?”

“No!” Harry erupted. “I just thought we could have lunch together, okay?”

Snape frowned slightly. “Much as I appreciate the invitation, I have no interest in enduring the company of certain parties—”

“Just the two of us,” Harry clarified, thinking even as he said it that he sounded like an absolute idiot. “I mean—never mind. I—”

“That sounds more agreeable,” Snape cut him off coolly. “Come here and make yourself useful for a moment, and then we shall see about discreetly requisitioning something from the Black larders.”

Harry balked. Make himself useful? What on earth did that mean? He glanced warily over the ingredients scattered over the table, hoping Snape merely meant for him to clean them up and not prepare them.

He was not so lucky. Snape selected a bundle of purple flowers with yellow centers and a pair of metal tweezers, which he pushed toward Harry. “I need the pistils removed and set aside. I trust you’re competent by now to work with common nightshade….”

Harry swallowed thickly. No, he wasn’t. He didn’t even know what a pistil was. “I could wash cauldrons—”

Snape made an impatient noise. “It isn’t complicated.”

“I’m pants at potions and you know it,” Harry mumbled

“Even better. You can practice here, with my supervision, and perhaps improve a bit.”

“I won’t do it right and I’ll mess up your potion—”

“You’ll do no such thing.” Snape gestured briefly to the flowers. “Go on.”

Harry sighed to himself, starting to regret his decision to come down here. Sure, he hadn’t wanted to see most of the adults eating lunch up at the table, but this little exercise here was not fated to end well. But he didn’t think Snape would take no for an answer at this point, and he’d just as soon as botch this without a preceding argument as well.

He picked up the tweezers and began to pluck the petals off of one of the flowers one by one, not sure of how else he could start.

“ _Pistils,_ Harry, not _petals_ ,” Snape corrected him, but calmly and without even an edge of impatience.

“Um.” Well, he’d brought this on himself, Harry told himself. He’d just _had_ to come traipsing down here. “I… I don’t know what a pistil is.”

Snape drew his wand and uttered an incantation over his cauldron before turning his full attention to Harry. “Haven’t you covered the basics of plant anatomy in Herbology?”

Harry swallowed thickly. “No—I mean, not that I remember….”

Snape scowled, and for a moment Harry was certain he was in for a verbal excoriation the likes of which he’d not heard in a while.

But then Snape merely shook his head, nose wrinkling in minor irritation. “Perhaps I need to have a word with Pomona,” he muttered, “about her choice of curriculum. Daft Hufflepuff, not even covering the foundational principles… well, come here and look closely.”

Snape selected one of the flowers and, still holding it so that Harry could see, he carefully peeled back the yellow petals in the center to reveal a thin, whitish tubule, which he extracted carefully with the tweezers. “This is the female reproductive organ of the flower,” Snape lectured. “It consists of the stigma—the tip here—the style, and the ovary at the base. The yellow parts here are the stamen, the male parts. You can ignore those.” Snape passed the tweezers back to Harry. “It requires a delicate touch, so take your time.” Snape demonstrated once more.

Lord Almighty, if Snape had instructed any of his potions classes with this level of patience and knowledge, his students would be in danger of actually _learning_ something.

Harry banished that thought before stealing a nervous glance at the potions master. He knew on a rational level that the man couldn’t read minds—

Oh, bloody hell. No, Snape most certainly _could_ read minds.

“Are you having some kind of attack?” Snape wondered scathingly, and it was only then that Harry realized the series of expressions that must have flitted across his face.

“Um, no, just… thinking of something.”

Snape arched his infamous brow at him. “Don’t strain anything.”

Harry rolled his eyes, picking up the tweezers and finagling the yellow parts of the flower open. After a few moments he stole another glance back at the man, just to be sure. But the potions master seemed as placid as ever. Snape either hadn’t read his thoughts, or hadn’t been offended. Either way, it didn’t seem as though Harry had landed himself in hot water.

A quarter hour later, Harry had successfully removed seven near-perfect pistils (though he’d mangled five other specimens along the way).

“Are the male parts good for anything?” Harry wondered aloud.

“Yes, there are many potions that call for them—for enhancement or enrichment, typically. The pistils are usually used to induce growth or healing.” Snape had returned to his potion then, and was already decanting it out into vials. “I assume you have used the petals, then, in the past, when potions have called for the pistils?”

Harry felt a prickling warmth wash over his skin. “Yeah,” he confessed, laying another extracted pistil in his growing pile on the counter. “I… I didn’t know the difference. I think Hermione even used the petals.” A white lie, to be sure, but he hoped that it would pass unnoticed.

Snape said nothing to that immediately, only continued his steady work. At last, he murmured, mostly to himself, “Perhaps an overview of botany and animal anatomy would be useful, as well as a course dedicated to preparatory techniques.”

“It wouldn’t hurt,” Harry agreed tentatively casting another mystified glance over at his professor. He was beginning to suspect Polyjuice, or some sort of new prank from the twins.

“I will have to review my lesson plans. In the meantime, we can certainly add such a course to your summer schedule….”

Harry groaned to himself. Ah, there was the good old Snape he knew, hell-bent on sucking the joy out of Harry’s life.

“Oh, come now. You clearly need it, and it will not do to have you failing potions—and certainly not during your O.W.L. year. We’ll limit it to a few hours a week.”

“I have other homework, though—”

“Which you will complete in a timely manner, thus leaving a good portion of your summer free for extra course work.” Snape stared him down, as if daring him to contest that statement.

“Sure,” Harry agreed unenthusiastically.

“An hour a day will not kill you.”

“Ah, but it might,” Harry mumbled, plucking out yet another pistil, “and then how would you feel?”

“I would say the chances are exceedingly low, even given the… rather _limited_ equipment I will be working with. But in the interest of not overtaxing that poor organ, we’ll take the weekends off, and we’ll alternate potions with defense, if you are amenable.” Snape glanced over at him. “Are we agreed?”

“We could stick with just defense,” Harry wheedled.

“Your marks in defense are not concerning, unlike your marks in potions. We could instead concentrate on potions alone, and do two hours of theory and two hours of practicum each day….”

“Fine, potions and defense,” Harry sighed. How did he get himself into these things? Though the prospect of extra defense lessons, even with Snape, was not so bad. “Though my marks in potions aren’t so bad, considering….” Harry bit his tongue, feeling like an idiot. He’d been about to complain about Snape, _to_ Snape! All this chumminess had his brain addled.

Snape let the comment pass, though. “They could be exceptional, though, and many future career paths require a high level of proficiency in brewing. Have you given any thought to what you’ll do after Hogwarts?”

Harry stiffened slightly. “Um, no,” he lied, before ripping the pistil he’d been trying to extract in two. _Damn_.

“Continue to think on it.” Harry felt Snape’s eyes lingering on him for a moment before they returned to the cauldron.

Harry had. And really, he’d drawn one conclusion. He’d survived that graveyard by a stroke of luck—a fluke, really. If Voldemort hadn’t wanted to put on his little show, Harry would be rotting away in the ground next to Cedric.

He didn’t count on being so lucky the next time. And there would be a next time, Harry knew. Oh, he’d prepare for it the best he could. He’d take all the extra defense lessons he could get, and he certainly wouldn’t give up. But it seemed to him that his chances of living much past the end of his Hogwarts days were slim to none.

Harry brushed those morbid thoughts aside. No use in dwelling in them. He sure as hell had every intention of making the most of these years here.

They continued to work in silence for a time before Snape called for a halt. The man cleared a space at the counter, casting a cleaning charm over it, before calling, “Kreacher!”

A pop resounded, and there suddenly was an ancient-looking house elf dressed in a filthy rag. “Oh,” the old elf moaned, “Kreacher is not supposed to be responding to respectable Potions Master Severus’s calls, no, not even if Potions Master Severus is worth ten times as much as Mistress’ rotten, awful, blood-traitor son. Not even if Potions Master Severus was good friends with young Master Regulus, ohh, no, Kreacher was warned.”

“Kreacher,” Snape sighed, “perhaps you would feel more comfortable seeing to your master’s godson’s requests?”

“This is Sirius’ elf?” Harry wondered aloud, peering down at the creature.

“Yes, though your godfather complains about this particular bequest to all and sundry. Which you would know, had you spoken to him.”

Harry flushed slightly at the latent disapproval in those words.

“Hem.” Kreacher cleared his throat, his features turning from worried to bitter. He glared hard at Harry. “Kreacher is _ordered_ to serve Master’s half-blood godson, even if Kreacher believes Master and his godson were not fit to scrape Mistress’ shoes….”

“Your master’s godson is worth a great deal more than your master, by my estimation,” Snape murmured. Harry didn’t know what to take of that statement—if Snape was merely saying that he thought so little of Sirius that anyone would look good by comparison, or if he was actually paying Harry a compliment.

Kreacher looked Harry up and down suspiciously, glanced back at Snape, and then finally returned his attention reluctantly to Harry. “How can Kreacher serve?” he demanded impatiently. And then added, under his breath, “Disgraceful that Kreacher should serve a filthy half-blood, spawn of mudbloods….”

“Kreacher,” Snape began warningly, his voice gone cold.

Harry watched, fascinated, as Kreacher flinched and then offered, seemingly genuinely contrite, “Kreacher apologizes for his language, Potions Master Severus. Kreacher meant no offense.”

Snape frowned, but offered no further rebuke. “Harry, it seems as though you’ll have to order lunch, as the mu—as your godfather has expressly forbidden me from calling upon his elf.”

“You like Snape, Kreacher?” Harry questioned, too curious to resist.

“Oh yes, Kreacher has a great respect for Potion Master Severus. Master Regulus was great friends with Potions Master Severus—”

“Ancient history,” Snape cut the elf off with an unmistakable glare for Harry, “that is best left forgotten. Lunch?”

Harry knew better than to push the topic. In fact, it seemed to him that he’d gotten away with a great deal more than he should have already. “Er, right, lunch. Could you—you know, bring us something down here? If it wouldn’t be too much trouble?”

Kreacher’s wrinkled lips curled in disgust, but he began shuffling away, muttering under his breath, “Hooligan half-blood brats not knowing how to properly give orders to House Elves…”

“He’s a real charmer,” Harry commented brightly once the elf was out of earshot.

“Just like his master,” Snape grumbled.

XXXXX

Lunch was a quiet affair, which Harry found he greatly preferred. Unlike Remus, who would have forced cheerful small talk, or Sirius, who likely would have spent the whole time regaling Harry with tales of his Hogwarts days.

Snape, on the other hand, was perfectly content with restful silence as they enjoyed their sandwiches and tea. In fact, Harry would have gone so far as to describe the man as _pleased_ , which was odd.

But the signs were unmistakable. The man was relaxed, thumbing through a potions text, one foot braced against the stool he’d dragged over to the counter, knee slightly elevated and the other leg relaxed and trailing against the ground in what Harry was certain was the most casual pose he’d ever seen the man strike. That, and the lines of Snape’s face were practically slack, and not in the neutral expression he’d been wearing around Harry for the past couple of weeks. No, now he looked—if Harry didn’t know better—completely at ease.

It was nice.

After they’d finished their lunch, Snape summoned Kreacher and offhandedly mentioned that there were dishes lying about in the kitchen without issuing an actual order. Kreacher shot the potions master a mildly disturbing smirk in response and vanished the dishes away before popping off himself.

“How much longer did you wish to stay?” Snape asked at last, returning to the counters and his ingredients. Slowly, with great care, he began gathering up the remaining bits of each and returning them to the corresponding glass jars that had been lined up on the counter beside the sink.

Harry froze.

Sure, he wouldn’t mind spending more time with Ron and Hermione, but he wasn’t too keen on the confrontation between some of the adults that seemed more and more inevitable.

“Um, you probably want to get going—”

“That is not at all what I asked.” Snape collected his stone mortar and pestle and carried it over to the sink, where he began to rinse out the bowl. “I am more than capable of leaving now and returning to collect you later—”

“But that would be a bother, really,” Harry argued. “Kind of a waste of your time. We can go, honest.”

Snape turned around and pinned him with a knowing look. “You realize that, for all your efforts at subterfuge, you’re being rather transparent, yes? You cannot avoid them indefinitely.”

Harry really hated, sometimes, how very blunt Snape could be. “But that doesn’t mean I have to talk to them today,” he countered.

Snape watched him for a moment longer before dipping his head once in consent. “Very well, but I can imagine you would at least want to say your goodbyes to your little friends.”

Harry snorted. “You don’t have to insult them every time you refer to them, you know.”

“Oh, but I do,” Snape drawled, an amused smile hovering at the corners of his mouth. “Go on; I’ll meet you back here. We’ll take the Floo.”

Harry sighed and nodded in acquiescence, thinking that he could probably make this quick. And he’d bet his vault that Snape would let him come back to visit his friends sometime soon. As long as he _asked_ , of course….

He bounded up the steps, wondering just how he was going to hunt down his friends without running into anyone else.

He didn’t have to worry long. He nearly barreled into Molly Weasley on his way up the stairs.

“Harry!” she cried, and before he could defend himself she’d pulled him into a tight embrace. “There you are! Ron said you’d gone to ask Severus a question, and when you didn’t turn up… well, I wasn’t worried, mind you, but the man sometimes has no notion of manners, and I thought that he’d taken you away without as much as a word….”

Harry struggled out of the woman’s arms, trying his best to free himself without blatantly shoving her away. “I needed to talk to him about something,” Harry replied evasively. “And he wants to leave soon, actually—”

“You haven’t even had lunch yet! Daft, irresponsible man. Let me speak to him, Harry.”

“I already ate with him—”

“Incorrigible man,” Mrs. Weasley swore, her sympathetic eyes still on Harry. “I don’t know what Albus was thinking, leaving you with Severus. Making you keep him company, letting him order you about like that—”

“He didn’t!” Harry shouted, praying that their words weren’t carrying down the stairs. The last thing he needed was Snape coming up and involving himself personally. “I wanted to eat with him.”

Mrs. Weasley, like Remus, seemed utterly floored by his declaration. “You… you wanted to eat with him? Did you have a spat with Ron? He seemed a tad upset….”

“No,” Harry retorted. “Well, a little, but….” Damn it, there was no way around this, was there? “I mostly didn’t want to see… certain people.”

Mrs. Weasley, it turned out, could be as dense as her son at times. “Certain people?”

Harry stared down at his shoes. “Like you.”

Silence. And then, after that pregnant pause, Mrs. Weasley asked a bit brokenly, “So… so you did get that first batch of letters, then?”

Harry said nothing. Was that her excuse? That she’d wanted to pretend that he’d never read that awful first missive she’d sent?

“We were convinced you hadn’t—well, Remus wasn’t, he was sure that Severus wouldn’t deny you your post, but Sirius, Arthur, and I thought for certain that he’d decide to keep them from you. We all know how he can be, and especially his attitude toward _you…_ oh Harry, I’m so sorry.”

Well, that explained a bit. Explained, but didn’t excuse.

“Ron tried to tell me that you’d never… but the _stories_ they’d tell about your hooligan cousin, and what Arthur told me after meeting him last summer, well, I’d thought the worst, that you’d taken after him, or had been bullied into things by him. And I knew those Muggles were inept at rearing children, and I couldn’t help but think that you… well, that you could do with some parenting. Arthur told me that it wasn’t really my place, but I was having none of it. I was in a right state.” Mrs. Weasley’s hands came together then to wring one another.

“And then Severus told us the truth about everything, and I thought that as soon as I had a reply from you I’d write you back and tell you I’d been out of line—because you’re really such a good, kind boy, Harry, and I was so _worried_ for you… my boys can tell you exactly how my worry comes out, too. But then I never had a reply, and we’d been talking, and it just seemed likely that Severus had deliberately withheld your letters, or… or forgotten about them. Oh love… I can see why you’d be cross with me.” Mrs. Weasley looked to be on the verge of tears.

Harry tried to hold himself steady. But he had to fold his arms tightly over his chest to keep them from trembling. This was not how he’d imagined things going. Damn it, she’d made him feel awful—ashamed of himself, ashamed for something he’d not even done.

“We only took the car because we thought we wouldn’t be allowed to go to Hogwarts if we’d missed the train,” Harry blurted out. “We didn’t know. We were stupid kids. And… and I was so afraid of having to go back to _them_ after Fred and George came to get me….”

The tears started to gather in Mrs. Weasley’s eyes again as she bobbed her head a few times. “Yes, I didn’t think about it…. You don’t break rules for selfish reasons. I know you’ve had an awful time of it, Harry, don’t think I’ve forgotten. I’ve just… well. Foolish of me to make any assumptions, I know, but you’ve been through so much in your life, and I know that sometimes sends people down the wrong path, and I just was so afraid that it had finally become too much for you.” She swallowed hard and drew in a deep breath, so deep that her bosom rose and fell with the force of it. “I promise to keep my nose where it belongs from now on. And to think before I send off any more stupid letters.”

Much as he wanted to stay angry, much as he wanted to tell the woman that she never should have sent such an awful letter in the first place, Harry couldn’t find it in himself to keep that resentment burning. It flamed out in him, and he found himself stepping forward without a thought, this time to initiate an embrace.

Mrs. Weasley welcomed him easily, though she did seem surprised to find him in her arms.

“S’okay,” Harry mumbled, then stepped back quickly, feeling very awkward suddenly.

“Did you know,” Mrs. Weasley began in a trembling voice, a watery smile on her lips, “that I once thought Fred and George had been experimenting on the Muggles down the way? Oh, I was mad enough to skin the pair of them. I thought they’d made one of the little girls break out in itchy red spots, and then tricked the girl’s family into believing it was some rubbish disease called Chicken Pox.” Mrs. Weasley had begun to blush then, and she started to fish around in a pocket in her apron for a handkerchief. When she found one—a red-checkered, twisted-up thing—she daubed at her eyes before swiping it over her nose.

“Chicken Pox is a real Muggle disease,” Harry ventured tentatively, not sure where her story was going.

“Oh, I know that _now_ ,” she insisted, a self-deprecating smile on her lips. “But not in time. The twins said they’d had nothing to do with it, and it was so unlike them, I tell you. When those two are caught, they fess up, take their lumps, and move on with their lives. They’re honest boys, mostly.

“But this time they swore up and down that it wasn’t them, and I didn’t believe them. I told them they were going to make it right, because Merlin help them if I had to involve St. Mungo’s and the Ministry. And still they told me they had nothing to do with it.” Mrs. Weasley’s smile faltered, then fell, and for a moment Harry could barely recognize her through the expression of guilt that had twisted her features.

“What did you do?” Harry asked quietly.

“Made them muck out the whole chicken pen with toothbrushes. I told them that I hoped _they_ caught Chicken Pox, that it would only serve them right….” She sighed. “And then Arthur came home, and I mentioned the girl down the way—I wanted to ease him into things, see. Arthur knew right away, of course, what the girl had, and he told me I should make her some of my mother’s bone broth to help her feel better. And I knew that Fred and George had been telling the truth.” Mrs. Weasley smiled bitterly to herself. “I’d like to tell you that I went to them straight away and told them what I’d learned, and apologized for my awful mistake.”

“You didn’t?”

Mrs. Weasley shook her head. “No. I was a coward, Harry. I never brought it up to them again. Not to this day. I couldn’t admit I’d been wrong. I couldn’t admit that I’d jumped to conclusions and been unjust with them. But I promised myself I’d do no such thing again.” Mrs. Weasley closed her eyes lightly for just a moment before opening them again. “And here I am, doing the same thing over again because I was too—too proud….” Mrs. Weasley’s voice choked over for a moment, and she had to stop speaking.

“It’s all right,” Harry reassured her, and he meant it, too. His heart ached a little, even, as he realized how vulnerable Mrs. Weasley was, how much she’d just admitted to him.

The adults in his life were human too. Why did that feel like such a revelation?

“Hardly,” she murmured. “I’ve upset you. Oh, Harry….”

“It’s all right,” Harry repeated numbly, awkwardly, not sure what more he could say. “Really. I—I was upset about it, but… I understand now. And I know you didn’t mean what you said. Not like I thought, anyway.”

Mrs. Weasley nodded once, mutely, her eyes still not meeting Harry’s. “Well. I suppose… Ron and Hermione were looking for you, dear. And Remus and Sirius too.”

Harry couldn’t help but pull a face at that.

Mrs. Weasley pursed her lips. “They’re sorry too, you know,” she murmured. And then she announced briskly, “Well, come along, Harry. Let’s not keep them waiting.”

Harry sighed to himself, but he allowed himself to be led up into the dining room.

All four named parties, as it turned out, were convened around the dining table. Four heads raised and turned toward him as soon as he and Mrs. Weasley entered the room.

Sirius was on his feet in half an instant and on his way over to Harry, his arms open and a broad grin splitting his face, which was only slightly less gaunt than what Harry remembered. “There you are. Come here, don’t be a stranger!”

“Sirius,” Lupin cautioned the man, an uncomfortable look stealing over his features. “Harry might not—”

“Moony, I think I’d know if that creep poisoned my godson. Dumbledore would never allow it. You’re all right, aren’t you, Harry?”

Harry almost told the man to shove off, but Snape’s disappointment weighed heavily on his mind still. If the potions master, who unabashedly detested Sirius, thought it was a good idea for Harry to at least talk to the man….

“Hey,” he greeted Sirius weakly, lifting his hand in a feeble wave.

Sirius dropped his arms, his expression turning puzzled. “Harry? Everything all right then?”

From the other side of the table, Hermione lifted her brows pointedly at both Lupin and Sirius. Clearly, she thought he should speak plainly to the two of them.

Harry disagreed though. His stomach already felt unsettled after dealing with Mrs. Weasley, and that whole confrontation had gone about as good as he could have hoped for.

Still, he wasn’t about to let that poisoning comment stand. “Snape didn’t brainwash me, or poison me, or any other stupid thing,” he said, and glared pointedly at Lupin.

Lupin at least had the grace to look abashed. “Harry, it’s not that we think that he has. It’s just strange that you’ve been so… well, standoffish with the both of us—”

Harry’s resolution to keep mum and deal with the two of them on a later day snapped then and there. “Really? Strange that I’ve been standoffish, is it? What do you call not writing me for a full year, hm, Professor? Good thing I wasn’t doing anything important during that year. Fighting off dragons or merfolk or getting whisked away to resurrect Voldemort!” Harry whipped to face Sirius. “And maybe I don’t like hearing that my godfather can just accept that I robbed some defenseless Muggle, and that instead of asking to hear my side of the story, he just fires off about how I’m being too wild, about how my _father_ never would have gone so far, as if the only thing that matters to you is how I measure up against my father! I’m not bloody James Potter, and I never will be, and hell, maybe I don’t want to be!”

Lupin and Sirius just stared at him in stunned silence, unable to reply.

Harry took advantage to turn to Ron and Hermione, whose eyes had turned to saucers. “I’m going home. Um, I think Snape’ll let me come back sometime. I’ll write.” And with that he darted past Mrs. Weasley and back down into the kitchen, hoping Snape would be ready to go. He really didn’t want to linger. He was afraid of what he might say.

Snape, thankfully, was ready. He stood by the fireplace, a chipped onyx bowl in one hand, a bored expression on his face. His attention flickered to Harry as he stumbled into the kitchen.

“I will,” he said simply.

Harry stared at him, perplexed.

“Allow you to return,” Snape clarified. “Provided that you ask me clearly and directly.”

Harry felt his face begin to prickle and burn as it dawned on him that Snape had somehow heard the entirety of his exchange in the dining room. “Were you spying on me?”

“Merely investigating this rather curious invention. Purely out of professional interest, as a faculty member of Hogwarts, where I assume they will be distributed.” Snape indicated with a jerk of his chin what appeared to be a human ear lying in the corner of the room. An Extendable Ear—a Weasley invention that Ron had detailed to him during their conversation.

Harry swallowed thickly. “I, um… I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that. I’m sorry, sir—”

“Why are you apologizing to me?” Snape demanded, bewildered.

Harry chewed his lip for a moment, trying to formulate his thoughts. Snape hated rambling, that he knew. “Well… I’m kind of your responsibility now, so when I go off like that, I… uh, make you look bad?”

Snape snorted. “Are you asking or telling me?” And then, without waiting for a reply, he informed Harry loftily, “I happen to appreciate the phrasing you used with the wolf and the mutt. You were not out of line.” He shook the bowl he was holding slightly. “Now hurry along. I’d rather not linger in this miserable place a moment longer than I must.”

Harry stared at Snape a moment longer, still wondering at the fact that he hadn’t been told off for his bad behavior. If he’d ever spoken to _anyone_ as he had to Lupin and Sirius in Vernon or Petunia’s hearing….

But Snape was not the Dursleys. Clearly. It was stupid that he should need to keep reminding himself of that simple fact.

“Have you been Confounded?” Snape growled impatiently, snapping Harry out of his contemplations.

Harry shook his head.

“Then why are you staring blankly at me?” And then he clarified, with a touch of his trademark sneer, “More blankly than usual.”

“Waiting for the Polyjuice to wear off,” Harry muttered, rolling his eyes, before grabbing a pinch of Floo powder from the proffered dish.

Snape glowered at him (though with no serious malignity, Harry could tell) before taking his own pinch and settling the dish back onto the kitchen’s grimy mantle. He thrust the powder into the fireplace and announced, “Spinner’s End!”

The fireplace roared to life in a rush of green flames, and Snape stepped in and disappeared.

Harry tossed his own handful in immediately afterwards, reigniting the flames, and repeated after Snape, being sure to enunciate very clearly. And then, in a rush of soot, he was spinning off toward the grungy, outdated little flat, thinking that, nice as it had been to see Ron and Hermione, it would be good to be home.

Or, he corrected himself, what was home for the moment.

Still, never in his life would he have believed that he would be looking forward to a quiet evening in the company of Severus Snape.


	20. Chapter Twenty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry discovers a lie, Snape argues an omission. Later, Harry gets back pats.

“Wrap it up, Mr. Potter.”

The Potion Master’s voice pulled Harry out of the trancelike state he’d fallen into, pausing him in his rhythm—pry up the nail, the shingle, toss it down to the back yard. His arms ached, but dully, and in a good way—ached from use, from honest work.

Harry blinked a few times. It couldn’t have been an hour and a half. He still had a few rows to go, too. “Let me just—” He began to call down to the man who stood watching him in the yard, but it was no use.

“No, Potter, you are done for the day. You _should_ have been done half an hour ago, and you would have been if you had not insisted on arguing—”

Harry started to pry up another shingle. If he could draw this out by arguing with Snape…. “I was just bringing up a point. A _valid_ point. I’ve put in more work before, and it hasn’t hurt me yet—hey!” The roof was slowly receding from Harry’s grip, and he was about to turn around and demand how Snape had managed _that_ , when he realized that it was him, not the roof, that was moving—more precisely, levitating. Harry flapped his arms uselessly, trying to find purchase on something, because damn it, Snape was being ridiculous. He needed another twenty minutes, maybe, to finish the first stage of the job, and there was no sense in imposing such an arbitrary time limit, anyway—

And then he felt the point of force shift, and suddenly he was hovering upside down, hoisted by his ankle, and slowly descending toward the sad, dying lawn where his professor stood, directing his trajectory with smooth, crisp movements of his wand.

“Okay, fine, I’ll stop—”

“Oh, you will? Good.” Snape sneered as Harry hung suspended before him—even as his eyes flickered up and down Harry’s form. “I would hate to have to resort to… drastic measures.”

Harry realized he had stopped descending and now was just dangling there, completely helpless before Snape, his baggy old t-shirt (a Dudley castoff that now served as work clothes) practically obscuring his face, his belly and some of his chest exposed. “Um, sir? I think the blood is rushing to my head—”

“Mm, that might do you some good. That poor, underused organ of yours can use all the help it can get.”

Harry rolled his eyes—which was an odd gesture when his eyeballs already felt drawn toward his forehead by the force of gravity. “Sure. Now can you let me down? Please?” he added for good measure.

“Why, Mr. Potter, I’ve no idea what you mean. You came down all on your own, did you not, just as we agreed?”

Harry sighed. He should have known better than to disobey Snape—in this particularly. The man was mad about a few things, and Harry doing housework had quickly become one of them. When they’d returned from Grimmauld Place, Snape had left Harry the afternoon to do as he pleased. Harry, thinking he’d wait until early evening to see about finishing up the roof, and less than thrilled about the promised daily lessons, had decided that he had no desire to bury himself in his texts again. And, not liking where his thoughts wanted to meander after that confrontation with Lupin and Sirius, he’d determined rather quickly to find something that would keep him busy.

So he’d diluted an old bottle of window cleaner, deciding that something had to be better than nothing. He’d managed the insides of the first few narrow, grimy windows in the parlor when Snape had emerged from the cellar to fetch one of his books.

Harry had been fully unprepared for the man’s reaction. Snape had lost it, first snarling at Harry, demanding to know what he was doing. And then, not even waiting for an answer, he’d proceeded to lay into Harry, calling him “a bit too big for a bloody house elf”, and mockingly inquiring if he thought he would be thrown out if he didn’t earn his keep. Which had caused Harry to blush and try to excuse himself, and Snape to turn a faint shade of red. Snape had caught him by the arm and gruffly apologized, then stated in no uncertain terms that Harry would do no more housework.

Naturally Harry had protested, arguing that he didn’t mind, and that he liked to stay busy—and he’d brought up the roof to make his point, to argue that Snape had already agreed to him working on similar projects.

Snape had declared then that he could do, at most, one hour of housework per day.

Harry had, of course, intended to wheedle out of that restriction. But Snape had stayed out with him in the yard, ostensibly to help by banishing roof debris, but mostly, Harry knew, to make sure he didn’t slip and break his neck (impossible with the cushioning charms that had been recast). He’d successfully bargained for a half-hour extension, though Snape had seemed less than pleased about it.

So who was he to blame for thinking he could push a bit further without Snape drawing a hard line?

Harry grimaced to himself. Apparently Snape didn’t offer warnings when he was pushed too far. Harry sighed, wishing the man had lowered him enough that even his swinging fingertips could brush the ground. Really, he didn’t know what to say to the man now though. Was Snape mad? Or was he being… well, playful? Though Harry immediately discarded that notion, as Snape did not play.

“Coming inside?” Snape inquired as he turned back to the house.

Harry heaved a sigh of irritation. Why couldn’t the man just yell at him and be done with it? “Okay, okay, I’m sorry I didn’t listen. Will you please let me down now?”

“Why are you sorry that you didn’t listen?” Snape probed. He didn’t sound too serious, Harry noted, more like he was enjoying tormenting Harry.

“Gah!” Harry growled. “I don’t know! Because the blood’s rushing to my head and it’s annoying?”

“Try again.”

“Because I should obey you?”

“Warmer.”

“I don’t know! Why am I supposed to be sorry?”

“Because,” Snape replied, “I have your best interests in mind, and when I give you directions and limits, it is not merely for the pleasure of exercising my authority. _Finite incantatum._ ”

Harry crashed abruptly to the ground—and he expected, for a terrifying split second, that he was going to crash headfirst into the lawn, but he’d forgotten about the cushioning charms. The magic was strange—marshmallow-esque, he thought, as his face squashed into some invisible barrier that had a much spongier kind of resistance than he’d been expecting. His landing was really no worse than if he’d thrown himself onto a spring mattress.

He started to struggle to his feet, only to find Snape offering a hand down to him. And once again he was struck hard, and viscerally, by a feeling of… well, he wasn’t quite sure. Snape had said he felt fondness for Harry. Was that maybe what Harry now felt for Snape?

He sure didn’t dislike the man. Not anymore. And he wouldn’t admit it out loud or anything, but he definitely admired the man. He was brilliant at potions, and magic in general. Hell, Harry would even say he enjoyed the man’s dark sense of humor. Even when it was turned against Harry, and left him dangling helplessly in the air.

Harry took Snape’s hand and allowed himself to be pulled back to his feet. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

“If you want to be kept busy, we can always extend your brewing time tomorrow,” Snape offered casually as he turned back to the house. “I have some rat viscera that need to be pickled.”

“Ugh.” Harry tried to suppress a shudder. “No thanks.”

“Hm. And here I had held off on forcing you to prepare ingredients because I thought you would enjoy playing with disgusting things.” Snape waved a careless hand at his boots as they entered the kitchen, unlacing them and kicking them off in one neat motion.

Harry scowled to himself as he bent down to unlace his trainers. “When have I ever given you that impression?”

“You never seemed particularly bothered in your detentions.”

Harry scoffed. “Poker face.”

“I never imagined you capable of such subtlety.”

A sudden thought struck Harry. “Do wizards play poker?”

Snape’s answer was interrupted by a sharp rapping on the window.

“Doesn’t owl post come in the morning?” Harry asked, watching curiously as Snape made his way to the sink.

Snape dislodged the sliding window with a grunt, allowing what Harry thought had to be some kind of hawk with a wicked sharp beak to hop through, a message rolled and tied to its leg.

“Owls are nocturnal and complete their rounds in the morning. Other delivery birds do not.”

“But I thought that wizards used owls—”

“And goblins prefer raptors. Gringotts uses golden eagles.” Snape fetched a slice of bread from the breadbox on the counter, tore off a piece, and offered it to the bird, which tore into it ravenously, and only extended its leg after it had polished off the offering.

“Gringotts? Oh—my account statement!”

“Indeed.” If Harry didn’t know better, he would have said that Snape sounded uncomfortable.

For the briefest second Harry wondered if the man had been lying and had been using Harry’s vault. But he immediately dismissed that notion as absurd. He knew Snape now, knew that the man had a strong sense of honor and duty. Harry figured it was just residual discomfort from their little confrontation on the matter when they’d gone out shopping. Or maybe it was Harry’s wealth. Not that Snape seemed to live in poverty or anything. The groceries he bought were usually high quality, his clothes were well-made…. Though Harry didn’t really know how to judge wealth in the wizarding world.

Snape stroked the eagle’s head once, a strangely affectionate gesture that seemed rather out-of-character for the man, before retrieving the scroll and allowing the bird to hop back out the window.

“Would you like to puzzle it out on your own? Or shall I show you how to interpret it?” Snape inquired once he’d shut the window again.

“I’ll try on my own.”

Snape nodded once and passed the statement over. “Come to me if you have questions.”

Fifteen minutes later found Harry bursting into the parlor, half in a panic. “I think something must have been messed up. Or I’m reading this wrong, but I don’t think I am. There should have been withdrawals in the last quarter, for the things I bought, but I don’t think they went through. So whatever you and Dumbledore did—”

“ _Professor_ Dumbledore,” Snape corrected him emphatically, though he did not move to rise from his armchair. “The statement is correct. No withdrawals were made.”

Harry just stared at the man. “But the stores need to be paid! I can guess how much I spent, and —”

“The money for your necessities should never have come from your vault. And in the future it will not.”

Harry floundered for a moment, unable to string together words for what he was feeling. “You—you? No. No, I have enough money, I don’t need you—you’re not buying things for me!”

“Harry, calm down—”

“No! You lied to me! You said—”

“I said other arrangements had been made. I said you did not need to worry about paying for your clothing.”

“You said that something had been set up with Gringotts so my account could be charged directly—”

“I said such an arrangement was possible,” Snape interjected calmly. “I never confirmed that such an arrangement had been set up in your case.”

“Oh, that’s so much better! You think just because you don’t _actually_ lie, just hint around and imply and basically lead me to the same conclusions, means you’re completely blameless—”

“I did not wish to argue about this. I knew you would object—”

“You’re damn right I object! I can pay my own way, you even said so yourself. I’m loaded—more than loaded—”

“I don’t care if you’re as wealthy as the Malfoys,” Snape cut him off, irritation at last seeping into his voice. “You are a minor. A _child_. You are not responsible for paying for your own care, and besides—”

“Well, it’s more like my parents are paying for it anyway! So just—tell me how much it was. We’ll just fix it, quick and simple. Can you do vault transfers or something?”

“You will not be transferring one _iota_ of your gold to me or anyone else. I’ve half a mind to freeze your account until you come of age—”

Harry saw red. How _dare_ Snape…. Just when he thought he could respect the man, just when he believed that the bastard had a heart after all…. “You can’t! I’ll—I’ll write Dumbledore, I swear to God. Don’t you even fucking try, you miserable—”

Snape was on his feet in an instant, both hands clamping down hard onto Harry’s forearms. “Calm yourself, Potter. And watch your language.”

Harry tried to rip himself out of the man’s grip. “Calm? You expect me to be calm when you what, casually announce that you want to cut off my access to any kind of money? Just how in the hell do you expect me to make it through the next two years? Just—just hold my growth spurts in? Borrow textbooks from my friends? I—”

“Stop,” Snape commanded, the word harsh and unequivocal. “Breathe. In. Out.”

Harry shook his head in blatant refusal. “You can’t expect me—”

“I will not discuss this while you are hysterical. Breathe, calm yourself, and we will resume.”

He would get nowhere, he knew, by yelling at Snape. As much as he wanted to, as big a bastard as Snape was, screaming would just get him dismissed like a misbehaving child. He had to be calm and rational if he wanted to figure out why Snape had suddenly turned back into the world’s biggest arsehole.

So he breathed. In and out, just like the man had demanded. And then he spoke. “I need access to my vault.”

Snape dropped the boy’s arms. “I agree.”

Anger surged back in Harry again, straining the meager control he’d managed to exercise over his temper. “But you said—”

“I said I had half a mind to close off your access. But you need it available to you—and not for the reasons you believe. You need the security of knowing that you can take care of your own financial needs. I will not deprive you of that.”

The tension drained from Harry at those words. This was more psychological need mumbo-jumbo. Snape wasn’t trying to be a jerk or anything, just maneuver Harry into… something. Feeling better about himself, or having self-esteem or something. “Okay. Fine. But I _should_ be paying for my other stuff. It’s not fair to make you pick up the bill—”

“I am your guardian,” Snape cut him off. “Providing for you is my duty. I will not be swayed on this point, so save your breath.”

“Temporary. Temporary guardian. It’s not fair for you to get stuck with paying—”

“You have a stipend from the Ministry, for your parents’ service in the last war. That more than covers any expenses you might incur.”

Harry just blinked for a moment. “A… stipend?”

“A fixed sum of money—”

“I got that, I’m not stupid!” Harry forced out a huffed breath. “Did the Dursleys get that money?”

Snape’s face twisted into a bitter expression then and, turning away from Harry he spat out, “Yes.”

“Bastards,” he muttered. This time Snape did not correct his language. “But the Ministry’s giving it to you now?”

“I have spoken with Albus on the matter.”

Harry narrowed his eyes at that evasive answer. “And what did he say _exactly_?”

Snape turned back to Harry, his expression softening, a bit of dark amusement glittering in his eyes. “So he _can_ be taught.”

“Yeah, yeah. What did Dumble— _Professor_ Dumbledore say?”

“He said that, given my current delicate position”—Snape’s eyes flickered briefly to his covered left forearm—“he would be able to assist with discreetly getting those funds to me.”

Harry breathed a relieved sigh. “Good.”

“You can accept, then, that your latest expenses have not been paid for directly out of your vault?”

Harry drew a deep breath. “I don’t like it. But… I guess it’s okay. It’s sort of… it’s like a salary for my parents, I suppose. As long as it’s not an obscene amount.”

“You’re a strange boy, Potter.” Snape moved over to his side and gently tugged the account statement from his fingers. “Most would be thrilled to be in your financial position.”

Harry blushed and shrugged as Snape studied the numbers on the parchment. “I don’t really like being rich.”

“I’d gathered.” Snape’s lips curved into a small, tight smirk. “Unfortunately for you, it seems you are only growing richer, as the goblins have been managing your money most astutely.”

“Great,” he mumbled.

Snape beckoned Harry over. “Now, this portion here is a breakdown of your current vested balance.”

Harry steeled himself. Then he said, as steadily as he could manage, “I… I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to… to lose it.”

Snape’s gaze flickered over to him, no ire there now, only a contemplativeness that Harry did not entirely understand. “What did we say about the use of ‘sir’?”

“Sorry for that, too,” he croaked.

“What is so upsetting to you about the notion of someone else paying for your things?”

Harry shrugged again as he lowered himself down onto the couch beside Snape. “You shouldn’t have to—”

“But clearly I am not concerned about it, else I would not have gone to such lengths to bury the issue.”

Harry wanted to move past this. He didn’t like Snape prying. And it served no purpose. “Well, there’s the stipend, so the whole thing is moot, I’m pretty sure.”

“This is not about the money. This is about your conviction that you must take care of everything yourself, including managing your financial situation. Granted those… your _relatives_ ”—Snape sneered the term with such contempt that Harry couldn’t help but wonder if the Dursleys felt his disdain, even from this distance—”have done nothing for you, save use you for free labor and inflict their pettiness on you. But you have had other adults in your life since then—”

“Oh, and you know how involved _they’ve_ been,” Harry scoffed, then immediately bit down on his tongue. “Look, the Weasleys have enough kids to be worrying about, and Sirius and Lupin… you know. Azkaban, full moons. I can accept that. And even Dumbledore— _Professor_ Dumbledore—has a million other things to worry about. I get it, what you were kind of saying before—and I get that you overstated it a bit too, so don’t start on that again, please.

“What I’m getting at is, I’ve managed well enough on my own, and I guess I’m just most comfortable shifting for myself, you know? If you want something done right and all,” he tried to joke.

Snape did not even quirk a lip. “You find it difficult to trust adults.”

“No,” Harry sighed. “It’s not all that complicated and dramatic. It’s just, I know how to take care of myself, and it’s easier for everyone if I keep doing just that.”

“You don’t wish to burden anyone,” Snape concluded.

“Now you’re twisting my words.”

“I would say I am interpreting your words, rather.”

“No, I’m just saying… it’s better for me, too, if I take care of myself. I’m good at it.”

“You have never been able to depend on anyone,” Snape observed mildly. “I find it hard to believe your claim that it is better for you to never lean on anyone.” Snape turned his full attention back to the statement in his hands. “Enough of that, though. Here, point out to me the amount in your account….”

Harry was relieved to move back into more concrete matters.

XXXXX

Harry held his eyes squeezed shut for a moment, pressed his forehead harder into the pillow. He hugged his arms tighter around his own torso, willing the nightmare to fade. He could still feel the tears tracking down his cheeks, bleeding into the pillow’s cotton cover.

They were getting worse. Because he’d rejected Sirius? Fought with Remus? He didn’t know.

But this time he’d dreamt of Cedric’s death in vivid detail. He’d seen, in slow motion, the green light hitting the boy’s body, the split second of terror before that bright flash glazed to nothingness. Amos Diggory, then, falling over Cedric’s body, weeping, and then turning angrily on Harry.

_Why did you want him to die? Why did you tell him to take the cup with you? You destroy everything, everything good. You weren’t supposed to compete. You weren’t supposed to be there. If you weren’t, if He didn’t want YOU…_

And Voldemort, whispering to him, _if only you hadn’t brought a spare_ …. _Ah, but he is with your dear Mudblood mother now, is he not_?

And then his parents, their ghostly forms staring at Cedric’s, his mother trying to comfort the boy, his father whispering, _I’m so sorry. Our son, he shouldn’t have… this is all his fault_.

The agony remained lodged in his chest like a mass of jagged glass, and much as Harry wanted to put the whole affair behind him and settle back into an uneasy sleep, this night was not like the others, not even like that night when he’d wandered into the kitchen. Now there was a gaping wound in his chest, and the pain of it was nearly unbearable, and he did not think that he could bring himself to crawl out of bed.

He heard the door crack. A tentative footstep. _No_.

What was he doing here? Why did he have to show up _now_ , of all times? Harry clamped his jaw down hard, trying to stifle any noise that might escape his lips. If he just kept his eyes shut and could just control his breathing….

The floorboards creaked and groaned beneath Snape’s slow, deliberate footsteps. Harry held his breath, keenly aware that he was barely containing the deep, choking sob that had welled up in his chest. Just a bit longer and Snape would go back to bed.

But the slow footsteps only grew closer, marginally louder, accompanied by the ghost of a sigh that Harry might have imagined.

The scrape of the desk chair across the wooden floor was enough to startle Harry into releasing his sob. It tore through his throat, followed by a gasping, desperate breath, and then another sob. He startled again when he felt the light, tentative touch of a hand between his shoulder blades; the warmth of the touch sent an electric pulse through him, one that only continued to hum when Snape’s fingers dug in and began moving in soothing circles.

“All right?” came the man’s rough voice, the question whispered.

Snape was not asking if _Harry_ was all right. He was asking for permission for this small bit of contact, asking if he’d overstepped some bound with his ward.

And Harry didn’t want him to stop. Didn’t know what he would do if the man did. That bit of contact grounded him. It took the sharp, unbearable edge off the pain, turned it dull and throbbing and there, but tolerable. He managed a jerky nod that he did not know if Snape would even recognize.

For a moment it seemed he had not. His hand froze, and Harry could feel the weight of the man’s gaze on him. But then, after an impossibly long moment, the circles resumed, and Harry breathed a small sigh. Gradually his tense body subsided into the mattress, his eyes falling closed as he allowed himself to be lulled into that simple but potent rhythm.

Harry could not say how long he lay there, floating in a half-sleep, fixated on everything Snape seemed to be communicating through the tips of his fingers. There was a desperation, Harry could feel—a concentration, an intent, a need to somehow make it better. Like when Harry would squeeze Hermione’s arm, or clap Ron on the back. A sentiment that mere words could not convey. Harry felt, in that moment, in the safety of the dead of night, that Snape was writing on his back the depth of an affection that he would never name aloud, would never acknowledge in the light of day.

It seemed that as long as he could feel that care, his mind could not drift back to the horrors it had conjured, as if Snape were working a magic too to ward off bad thoughts. Harry would have slipped into a peaceful slumber, given enough time.

But before he could drop off, Snape’s voice pulled him back from the brink.

“What did you dream?”

This time Harry shook his head. He did not want to go back there. He wanted to move on, to leave the guilt and the fear and the pain buried where it belonged.

Snape did something unbearable then. He moved his hand up to rest against the nape of Harry’s neck, the warmth of his palm seeping into Harry’s spine, his thumb digging into the overwrought muscles connecting head to shoulder. It was intimate, familiar. Overwhelming.

The words were tumbling past Harry’s lips before he could stop them. “Cedric again. He… he died, and Voldemort”—Snape’s grip tightened sharply before gradually easing—"k-killed him, and laughed. And Cedric’s father… he was angry, and m-my parents apologized to Cedric’s ghost—”

“Shh,” Snape hushed him. “It was just a nightmare. Everything is well now—”

“Cedric’s still d-dead,” Harry choked, “and I killed him—”

“You did not.” There was nothing but conviction in those soft, steady words.

“I did. I told him to take the stupid cup in the maze. I wasn’t even supposed to be there. If—if I’d just… if I wasn’t there, he would have won—”

“Sh,” Snape hushed him again. “You had no choice, and you couldn’t have known. You did not kill him. The Dark Lord—”

“But if he hadn’t been there—”

“If _we_ had not allowed you participate in that asinine Tournament, if _we_ had done our duty and recognized Moody for an impostor, if _we_ had created safety protocols…. There are many ifs, and none of them fall on your shoulders. It is absurd that you should blame yourself for his death.” Snape withdrew his hand and stood abruptly, and in seconds he had moved around the bed to crouch on the opposite side, so that his chest was level with Harry’s face.

Harry could feel the dried tearstains on his cheeks beneath the new ones that were forming, and he was ashamed. Bawling like a child… he tried to hide his head. But Snape was having none of it.

He laced one hand into Harry’s hair and tilted his head up, forcing their gazes to meet. “You did everything you could—everything, Harry—and you got yourself out alive. You brought Cedric’s body back to give his father closure. Do you even realize how impressive it is, that you survived that encounter?”

Harry felt the blood rush to his face and he tried to turn his head away again. Snape, complimenting him. Snape saying it wasn’t Harry’s fault. It was too much. “It was our wands. Twinned cores. And my parents, and… and Cedric, and the others, they bought me time—”

“You survived, though, up until that point. You held your composure. You fought back, you waited for your opportunity. You think anyone could have managed that? Alone against the Dark Lord and his followers?”

“I had help,” he protested. “And—and I got to the cup first. I should have just taken it.”

“You couldn’t have known. _No_ , Harry, enough. You must reject the guilt, before it eats you alive.” Snape disentangled his fingers enough to card them once more through Harry’s hair. “We will work on it,” he murmured, seemingly more to himself than anything. “Courses in mental discipline… I will speak with Albus.”

Mention of the headmaster tore through Harry like a serrated blade. _What does he care_? he almost demanded, but wisdom had him biting his tongue.

“You’re upset with him.”

The throbbing wound left behind by the mention of Dumbledore was answer enough for Harry. _Yes_ , damn it, he was furious, because while Remus and Sirius and Mrs. Weasley had all disappointed him, at least they had _said something_ to him. Dumbledore… Dumbledore hadn’t even dropped him a note. Hadn’t stopped in to check on him, hadn’t shown in any tangible way that he even cared what Harry had been through—apart from that generic, cheery letter to the judge that, in all honesty, could have been written by anyone, because how was a Confounded muggle to know the difference?

No, Dumbledore had believed Harry guilty, had sent him to be punished by Snape—and when he’d found out about Harry’s innocence, hadn’t lifted a finger to change anything. Never mind that Snape was actually a decent sort, once he decided he didn’t hate your guts. How was Dumbledore to know that? The last he knew, Snape and Harry were at each other’s throat.

“He has his reasons for keeping his distance,” Snape murmured enigmatically.

“Of course,” Harry muttered.

Snape said nothing for a moment, and when Harry stole a glance up at his face, he could have sworn he read anguished indecision there—much as he was able to make out in the dimness of the room.

And then resolve, as if a conviction had been forged. “I will explain everything tomorrow, though I know Albus would rather I did not.”

“Explain what?” Harry demanded hoarsely.

“Why he sent you here. Why he has not come to see you personally.”

“Tell me now!” At the wrinkle of displeasure that Harry could sense in Snape’s expression, he added contritely, working to make it sound not so much like an afterthought, “Please.”

“Tomorrow. You will not change my mind. Right now, you need rest, perhaps a rudimentary Occlumency lesson to clear your thoughts….”

“What?”

“The art of shielding your thoughts. The sister art of Legilimency.”

“But—why would I need to shield my thoughts?”

Snape heaved a sigh and carefully disentangled his hand from Harry’s tousled mop. “Mental discipline… as I said. It will help you to shield your thoughts, yes, but it will also help you to master your inner pain and turmoil.”

It sounded as though Snape had intimate experience with that process. But Harry could not bring himself to voice that thought and offer the man to speak of his own experiences.

“How do you do it?”

“You start simply, with breath. Close your eyes and focus on nothing but the rhythm of your own breathing.”

Harry let his eyes slip shut.

“Lengthen the rhythm. Let it slow. Breathe from the base of your spine and feel your breath expanding throughout your body.”

Had he ever noticed before this strange, hypnotic quality to the man’s voice? Was this why he couldn’t concentrate in potions—because he was lost cresting through the syllables of each sentence, rising and falling with every inflection?

Breath. Then muscles, one group at a time, from the tips of his toes to the crown of his head, until he was floating, limbless, sinking into his mattress and on the cusp of true sleep.

 _I’m glad you came_ , he thought to Snape, and sunken as deeply into his own mind as he was, he could feel the reverberations of gratitude like plucked harp strings.

 _I will always come_ , Snape replied—and Harry could not say if the man spoke it aloud, or whispered it into his mind, or if he’d just imagined it entirely.

Doubts rose in him in answer to that—that Snape could not make such a promise, that he could not always _know_ to come, that there would be too many times when Harry was on his own for those words to matter. And Snape hadn’t said them anyway, had he? Just maybe squeezed Harry’s hand—had that been a squeeze? Or just an echo or an errant wish as his thoughts fragmented further into dreams?

It didn’t matter. For a blessed moment Harry felt at peace, and that was enough.

XXXX

Harry tried to ignore the knocking on his door. He wasn’t going to go out there. The last time had been bad enough, and that had just been after tea and a chat that had been just a hair too candid.

This time Snape had found him sobbing like a toddler afraid of the dark, and Harry had babbled on like a blubbering idiot. And he was _not_ , he resolved, going to face Snape down, not until the shame dulled to a bearable level.

The knocking edged toward pounding. “I know you’re up, Potter,” Snape called in, sounding disgruntled.

Ah. So he was irritated. Not that Harry should be at all surprised. He’d known this was coming, hadn’t he? It was stupid that this switch in attitude was stinging him so much now.

“It’s after ten. I’ve given you plenty of time to sulk. You have five minutes to get yourself to the table before I come in there, whether you are decent or not.” The floorboards creaked as they always did as Snape retreated.

Harry pulled the covers back up over his head, blocking out the glaring summer sun that had long ago penetrated into the small bedroom. He hated himself. How had he even managed to wake Snape in the night anyway? His cousin had always teased him about his moaning and crying out in the night, but he’d never fully believed Dudley.

But clearly it had been drastic enough to rouse Snape from his own bed several doors down. And now the man was probably grouchy from lack of sleep, and irritated with Harry. After all, as enthusiastic as he’d seemed about ‘helping’ Harry, he’d never actually signed up to soothe his enemy’s son through his night terrors, now, had he? Likely he was realizing the full extent of the commitment he’d tried to make and was balking at it.

And Harry hated himself for driving things to this point. Because they’d been getting along, hadn’t they? Things had been comfortable. Snape was good for doing the basic things, and that was more than enough. It was like Harry had said, he was used to shifting for himself. And so anything anyone was willing to do for him was a welcome bonus.

He liked the little things. Meals made for him. Someone checking in with him. Someone to ask for advice when he needed it. That was all he wanted.

But now he’d gone and shown Snape what he’d suspected all along, that Harry was an emotional basket case who needed his hand held and his tears dried. Which wasn’t the case, because Harry would have managed to get through the night on his own (though he could admit that Snape had calmed him far more quickly than Harry would have been able to calm himself). But Snape wouldn’t believe that Harry wasn’t actually a needy, broken little boy, not after what he’d seen—

Three sharp raps on the door caused Harry to jump and derailed his train of thought.

“Two minutes! You won’t like what happens if I have to come in there, I promise!”

Harry groaned and dragged himself out of bed. “I’m coming,” he called, “just need to get dressed—be down in five—”

“Two,” Snape cut him off. “You’ve had all morning. And just come in your damned pajamas, boy.”

Harry pulled a casual outfit—jeans and a solid blue-grey t-shirt—from the armoire along with clean pants, and started to shimmy out of his pajama bottoms before freezing. Snape had told him not to change… would he be mad if Harry defied him?

He really didn’t need to irritate Snape any further. Not this morning.

So he hiked his pajama bottoms back up, sucked in a deep breath that puffed up his chest, and forced himself to march straight out his bedroom door, down the stairs, through the hall, and into the kitchen.

Snape was still at the table, dressed in casual slacks and a loose charcoal jumper, reading the Daily Prophet, coffee but no breakfast in front of him. There was nothing set in front of Harry’s place, either.

Snape peered around the paper when Harry entered. Harry spied a picture of Fudge waving at throngs of reporters half-hidden behind Snape’s thumb. “Sit,” he commanded, and tossed the paper aside to draw his wand. Quickly and efficiently, he summoned a juice cup and juice as well as bread for toast and the butter and jam, and all by the time Harry had settled in his chair.

“Are you ready to talk? Or do you want to finish your breakfast first?”

Harry pulled the glass of juice toward him, weighing his options in his head. He never wanted to talk again, not about this, but he knew that wasn’t an option. “Talk,” he mumbled before taking a swig of his orange juice.

“Good.” Snape leaned back a little in his chair. “This is the last time we’re doing this little dance, do I make myself clear? This back-and-forth nonsense is going to stop.”

Harry stared at the man blankly for a moment, trying to determine what he was talking about. “Back-and-forth?”

“The bizarre habit you have of dissolving into utter mortification any time you display emotion in front of me. You were avoidant the morning after your last difficult night as well. So, you are going to tell me why that is and what you will be doing in the future to keep from falling back into the same pattern.”

Harry laced his hands together tightly in his lap and squeezed them hard enough that the sensation began to inch into pain. “The nightmares just started again, and I have no idea why. But… is there a potion or something that would stop me from dreaming? So I don’t keep waking you with—”

“Are you willfully misunderstanding? Or are you just that dense?”

Harry jerked his head up hard, fighting the sudden flood of panic at the note of anger in Snape’s voice.

“Your nightmares are a separate issue, one that we will work through together. _Properly_. Not by reckless over-medication because you do not wish to face them.”

Harry felt his face burn at that implication of cowardice. “I… I didn’t mean… it’s just, I keep waking you—”

“If I did not wish to be woken, I would simply cancel the alert spell over your bed!”

It was a few moments before Harry could respond. “Alert spell?” he whispered.

Snape bristled. He stood up suddenly, taking his coffee cup with him, and promptly dumped the contents in the sink. “I told you last time… you may have been too far gone to hear. It only wakes me if your sleep is severely disturbed. And no, I will not be removing it, before you ask, because you are at present utterly incapable of coming to me for help when you need it.”

Harry watched silently as Snape began preparing a fresh cup of coffee. He knew he should protest. But, if he was being honest with himself, last night had been… nice. More than nice. He’d felt so _relieved_ when Snape had touched his back, when the man had offered simple, concrete reassurances.

“Why were you going to stay in your room this morning?” Snape tapped his wand to the kettle, causing it to whistle for a second before he poured the water into the press.

Harry found himself absently shredding a piece of toast as he tried to piece together an answer. “I thought you’d be irritated with me.”

“For?” Snape turned back around suddenly, his gaze narrowing in disapproval. “Stop playing with your breakfast. Either eat or leave it be until we’ve finished.”

Harry winced, thinking that he was not five years old, and that Snape shouldn’t scold him as if he were. And then, eyeing the unappetizing pile of fragmented toast, that maybe the man had a point. Either way, he knew that there was nothing on the table that could deflect Snape’s questions, and that the longer he tried to stall, the more irritable Snape would become.

“I… I’ve been sort of needy—”

“By whose account? Yours? Your relatives’?”

“It’s just… you have to spend a lot of time, and, er”—how would Hermione put it?—"emotional energy”—there, that was passable—"on me, and I know you didn’t sign up for that—”

“I ‘signed up’ to look after you knowing full well that you have been through several recent traumas, not to mention a host of other trying periods over the years. And that is not to mention the abominable waste of a childhood you endured with those bloody Muggles. Just because I did not initially fulfill my duties—”

“Okay,” Harry broke in, “I guess what I’m trying to say is that you _didn’t_ sign up to hold my hand or dry my tears or anything. You had your facts wrong at the outset—”

“And you think you are still here because, what? I’ve been begging the headmaster to send you somewhere else but he isn’t listening to me?”

Harry shut his eyes tight. “I know there’s no one else to take me. And I know you wouldn’t ask him stupid, pointless questions. And that you’ve been really, really decent about letting me stay here. But that doesn’t mean that… you know, that it’s fair that you should have to take so much on—”

“Harry,” Snape sighed. The clatter of his mug against the table was enough to get Harry to open his eyes and really _look_ at the man. He was tired, dark rings rimming his eyes, a tinge of bloodshot red there. Not enough to be too noticeable if you weren’t looking hard. And, strangely enough, the shadow of a beard; Harry had not ever seen the man with facial hair, had thought him incapable of growing it. And his eyes. Black, yes, and piercing, steady, but there was a fierceness there that had nothing to do with anger. And, if Harry didn’t miss his mark, a hint of pain.

“Listen to me. And do _try_ to reign in your temper when I tell you this.”

Harry nodded once dumbly.

“I _asked_ for you to remain here. Albus was prepared to install you at Grimmauld Place. And while I maintain that the arguments I made for keeping you here rather than installing you at headquarters are still valid, my motivation was not simply making the most rational choice given the circumstances. And yes, I know very well your feelings on the matter, and how miffed you must be that you were not consulted, but in light of everything that has come to pass….”

Snape’s delineation of his rationale—a rehash, really, of the arguments he’d presented before—filtered through Harry without registering. Harry was not _angry_. Astonished, yes. But angry? How could he be angry when Snape, for some unfathomable reason, had actually wanted to keep Harry here? And that after Harry had thrown a fit and shattered his housewares (not that he hadn’t been provoked, mind) and deliberately defied Snape, and talked back to him, and Merlin knew how many other things. But the man still wanted Harry around.

“You’re not even listening to me, are you?”

Harry nodded his head, as he had been for some time then. Then the question registered, and he shook his head—first to clear it, then to offer up a chagrined honest answer to the inquiry.

Snape huffed irritably. “My assessment of the situation still stands, personal motivations aside. I know you’d rather stay with your friends—”

“I wouldn’t.” Snape had been honest with him; Harry figured he could do the same. “I… I meant it, you know. You’ve been really decent, and I appreciate it. And—I mean, as long as you don’t mind having me here….”

Snape pursed his lips. “You might change your mind yet. I intend to make full use of my powers as your guardian, regardless of your opinion on the matter.”

Harry gave a little shrug. “That’s fine. I really don’t mind that either. It’s… a bit much, sometimes. But I figure… I’ve never had someone, not really. So I’ll try to get used to it.”

“You can accept, then, that I will be checking on you frequently, especially at night? That I will be there to support you when you are in a vulnerable state?” When Harry nodded, Snape pressed, his tone becoming pointed, “And you can do so without resolving to cloister yourself in the next moment to escape your adolescent shame?”

Harry wished the man wouldn’t scathingly term his embarrassment “adolescent”, or speak with such a bitter, mocking edge. But he understood what Snape was getting at, especially when the man had not said one remotely hurtful word regarding Harry’s nightmares. Harry was running from a fear born in mistrust. And if he thought about it, really thought about it, he trusted Snape.

“I’ll do better,” he mumbled.

But Snape wasn’t done there, apparently. “It should not rest solely on your shoulders to sort this out. And believe me when I say I will hear no arguments on this point, because I will not. I have arranged for you to see a Mind Healer at St. Mungo’s—”

“A _what_?” Harry croaked. “And… where?”

“A Mind Healer, at our magical hospital. Your neighbor brought up a valid point about seeking outside assistance—”

“I’m not going to go see some magical _quack_ —”

“You will. I don’t care if I have to drag you there kicking and screaming. I don’t care if you talk about Quidditch for the whole session. You are going tomorrow afternoon, and three days after that, and four days after that, until it is no longer in my power to make such arrangements.”

“I don’t need my head shrunk! You _do_ think I’m a head case then, after I told you I wasn’t—”

“Harry,” Snape interrupted, and the sudden change in tone was enough to cut Harry off at the knees. Gone was the steel, the defy-me-and-you-will-live-to-regret-it arrogance. Instead, his voice turned soft, pained, _pleading_. “It is not a sign of weakness. It is a resource—a necessary one, after all you have been through. I do not doubt you could soldier through the next three years, holding yourself together and fighting through the pain that dwells in your memories. But _you do not deserve that_. You deserve peace, and believe me, you will find it much more quickly with professional help.”

Harry could not help but stare at the rawness of Snape’s expression in that moment. He was far more open than Harry had ever seen him. Maybe that was what gave him the courage to ask. “Did you go to… one of them? You know… after?”

Snape snorted, the sound somehow self-deprecating. “No. Albus mentioned it, once or twice, but with no real insistence…. And you see the man I have been, Harry. You know the way I treated you, and for what petty reasons.”

Harry found himself wrapping his arms over his torso, warding off… he didn’t quite know what. “You think I’ll become the same way?” he croaked.

Snape loosed a brief, bitter chuckle. “No. You… you turn your pain inward rather than outward. You’ll destroy yourself before you hurt anyone else. And that is worse, I think.” Snape moved closer, tilted Harry’s head up with two fingers place under his chin. “As long as I have a say, I will take steps to prevent that from happening, whether you can agree with my decisions or not.”

Harry had to swallow past the tightness in his throat. Whether Snape thought he’d gone round the bend or not, he could at least appreciate the unwavering commitment in the professor. There was no flattery, no insinuation of himself into Harry’s good graces. Just an iron determination to do what was needed, what was best for Harry, whether Harry would ever acknowledge it was best or not.

“Will I have to drag you, Harry?” The question was not nearly as cold as it could have been. It was level, bereft of accusation or threat or pleading, just an inquiry of where things stood.

“No,” Harry mumbled, dropping his head, relieved when Snape let him. “I’ll try it.”

“Good.” Snape settled back into his seat, drawing his mug close to him. “Eat your breakfast, before I spell your silverware to feed you.” He unfolded the Daily Prophet.

Harry sighed and began buttering a non-shredded piece of toast. “So… that’s why Dumbledore had me sent here? But wait, you wouldn’t have wanted me to stay at the beginning, right after you came to get me—”

“Breakfast first,” Snape ordered implacably. He did not look up from the Prophet.

Harry suppressed a sigh. And then he tucked in rather than continue to wheedle, because his guardian certainly wasn’t a pushover.


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Late night calls, and Harry agrees to have--GULP--therapy

“You’re wrong.”

Snape stared back at him levelly, a brow arched in challenge.

“You are—you have to be! I can’t… it can’t be….”

“Just because it is unpalatable does not mean it is untrue.” Snape crossed one long leg over his knee and leaned back a bit further in the fauteuil he’d chosen in the parlor. He seemed, Harry thought bitterly, rather unperturbed at the prospect that a piece of bloody mother-fucking Voldemort was lodged firmly in his ward’s mind, and possibly semi-conscious of a conversation that might expose him as a spy and a traitor. “I do not put much stock in Albus’ theory that the Dark Lord is able to so much as sense auras through you from a distance. The link is troublesome, but—”

“How can you _know_? And how can you be so—so devil-may-care about this? What if he’d seen—”

“Neither Albus nor I believe that such a tenuous link could allow the Dark Lord to utilize your senses or even access your thoughts. Albus only believes that it is possible that the Dark Lord might exploit the connection to influence your moods and, even less likely, to tap into your memories. As I said, I’ve observed you for several weeks now for any such source of malignant influence, and I have seen nothing more than unremarkable teenaged angst—”

“But what if you’d been wrong?” Harry cried. “What if he _could_ see that you’re working against him? What if—”

“Potter, do you believe the Headmaster and I to be simple?”

“No,” he confessed, “but if he knows, if he—”

“He does not know.”

“But you can’t be sure—”

“I’ve met with him since. He allowed me to walk away. He gave no hint that he was perturbed. He did not know you were staying with me. Ergo, he does not know.”

Those words sank into Harry like shards of ice. “You—you’ve seen _him_? Vold—”

“The Dark Lord,” Snape cut in sharply. “And yes. I believe you are acquainted with my _dealings_ with him.” Snape indicated with his gaze his covered left forearm.

“What if he had known? What would he have done to you? How could you go just _hoping_ that everything was fine—”

“ _Hoping_ is what I do every time I am summoned. And I have contingency plans, I assure you. There is no need for hysterics—"

“It’s not hysterics! It’s a very reasonable reaction to learning you could have _died_ because of me—”

“Harry,” Snape cut in sharply, the word ringing like the crack of steel on steel. “Calm yourself.”

“I—”

“ _Calm_.” Snape repeated the word, pitching his voice low. “Take a few breaths and _listen_. First, had anything befallen me, it would not— _could not possibly_ —have been your fault. You did not know of any risk, you did not choose to associate with me, and you damned well had no say in my return to his presence. Breathe, count to ten, and then tell me whether or not this is clear to you.”

Harry very nearly shouted back that he didn’t need to _breathe_. But even as he filled his lungs to scream at Snape, he could feel the blood pulsing in him, and recognize that the Potions Master might have a point here.

And regardless of whether Harry thought the man had a point or not, Snape would not take kindly to direct defiance.

So instead Harry did as he was asked, resenting every second of it. He knew Snape was right. He was… more emotional lately, more than he’d ever been. It felt like he might go off at the drop of a feather. And that feeling of volatility was not a good one. So he inhaled slowly through his nose, out through his mouth, felt his chest expand and fall. He counted as he did it, breathing deeply again.

Then he replied, “I don’t like that being near me puts you in more danger.”

“It does not, as I have endeavored to explain. But I can understand the sentiment.” Snape tented his fingers and leaned slightly against them, his dark gaze still fixed on Harry. “I took a calculated risk based on my own conclusions. You had no part in that. Do not ascribe blame to yourself.”

Harry closed his eyes and counted to five. A good trick, that. It once again kept him from yelling things that would get him into trouble. “I still don’t like it. Why risk it at all?”

Snape sighed. “When the first reports of your dealings with the Muggle authorities reached the Headmaster—after a…cat was shaved, I believe?—we had a long conversation regarding the reason for this shift in behavior. I think you can well imagine my own stance.”

Harry grimaced. “I was a reckless, lawless hoodlum with no respect for anything or anyone, is that about right?”

Snape snorted softly. “I threw in a few half-hearted speculations about your grief, and allowed that trauma might possibly be exacerbating your misbehavior. But you are essentially correct.”

“But Dumbledore—Professor Dumbledore—thought it was Volde—er, old Tom leading me astray?”

“We’d ruled out possession on the basis that the link was too tenuous to allow for the kind of total takeover that Ginny Weasley was subject to. But Albus worried that some of the Dark Lord’s blacker emotions and motivations were bleeding through and influencing you for the worse. We agreed to monitor the situation as needed. Naturally, when things escalated to commission of a felony, we mutually agreed that more drastic steps were necessary.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably on the sofa, moving so that he was close to the edge of the cushion, head leaned against his clasped hands, elbows braced against his thighs, as he grappled with the possibility that he _was_ subject to Voldemort’s influence. Never mind that he hadn’t committed that crime. There was still the anger that seemed to well up in him out of nowhere, the violence… the destruction he’d wrought in Snape’s dining room came to mind.

“Your relatives were unfit to handle you, clearly.”

Here Harry winced, then felt a rush of shame that such words could still affect him so much. Which was followed by a slight wash of relief that his face was obscured, so that Snape wouldn’t see how susceptible he was.

Not obscured enough, apparently, as Snape added, “Or so it seemed.” At least he did not soften his tone. Harry knew he could not stand pity or sympathy, not right now. “And I did press Albus for the right to implement what I believed would be proper discipline for your actions—with limits, of course. But the main reason for you to come here was so that I could observe you very closely for any signs of adverse influence.”

“You being an expert in Vold—er, _him_ , and I’m guessing some Dark Arts?” Harry ventured, lifting his gaze carefully to meet Snape’s again.

Snape’s nostrils flared slightly. “Amongst other things,” he confirmed. “The Mind Arts, namely.”

“And the reason Dumbledore couldn’t check on me?” Harry pressed.

“ _Professor_ Dumbledore,” Snape stressed, with a meaningful look to Harry, “is a powerful wizard. His magical signature, and aura, are distinct, and resonate quite clearly in witches and wizards on a subconscious level. And being that the bond between yourself and the Dark Lord is primarily magical and therefore sensitized to magical influence, and given that the Dark Lord is rather familiar with the headmaster’s signature, we have theorized that this resonance will flag to the Dark Lord. It may make him more aware of this link, and its nature, than he currently is, as well as stir up his ire. He may very well try to lash out at the headmaster through you, and continue to do so even after you are out of the headmaster’s presence. Hence why Albus has tried to keep his interactions with you to a bare minimum.”

Harry swallowed hard, trying to loosen the sudden painful tightness in his throat. “Oh God.”

Snape frowned—Harry didn’t know if it was at his Mugglish oath, or because he didn’t like Harry’s reaction. “It is nothing so dire. It is a precaution only, one we are disposed to take.”

“But… he hasn’t been avoiding me because he’s—you know, mad at me?” Harry blurted out. His stomach was still churning at all he’d learned, but mixed up in there somehow was a sense of relief.

Snape’s frown grew more intense, his brow creasing intensely at the question. “What reason would the headmaster have to be mad at you?”

“Well, before, because—you know. He thought I was acting out. But the Tournament, too, because even after that he seemed… I don’t know.”

“Why would the headmaster be angry at you about the Tournament?”

Harry dropped his gaze to his knee to admire the yellow and burgundy pinstripes of his pajama pants. “You know. Cedric. And—and the graveyard. And Moody being Crouch. Or, I guess, Crouch being Moody—”

“Have you taken a Babbling Beverage, by chance?”

Harry felt the skin of his face searing with a sudden blush. “I made a mess of things. I… I told Cedric to take the cup. And I let Wormtail catch me, for the ritual that brought him back, you know, blood of an enemy…. And even before that, with Moody—or Crouch—I didn’t realize something was off—”

“Perhaps I should simply ask if you have been brain-damaged,” Snape inquired acidly. “How in Merlin’s name is _any_ of that your fault? And I want you to think, long and hard, before you answer, especially about conversations that we have already had. Because I think you know how little I like to repeat myself.”

Lord, now his neck was burning too. Harry shut his eyes tightly. “That’s not what I meant. I was just saying, you know, maybe—maybe Professor Dumbledore was thinking that way—”

“You were not,” Snape stated plainly. “Do not lie to me again.”

“Sorry,” Harry stammered out.

“Now tell me what I would say to you about the nonsense you have just spewed.”

“The same things you said last night,” Harry mumbled.

“Which was?” Snape prompted impatiently.

Of course Snape would make him repeat everything.

“I couldn’t have known about the cup,” Harry whispered. And surprisingly, speaking those words made him feel just the smallest bit lighter.

“Correct. Keep going.”

Harry drew a deep breath. “I did everything I could.” A quick glance up, a small nod from Snape. “And… I don’t know.”

“It was not your responsibility to see to it that everyone was safe. It was ours.”

Harry nodded minutely, trying to make himself feel those words, to make the absolution in them real.

“Say it.”

“It was not my responsibility to keep everyone safe.”

“Nor will it ever be,” Snape added seriously. “And you need to keep telling yourself as much. Mentally, if not verbally, or you will continue to be mired in that pointless guilt. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Snape seemed to relax, then, and leaned back into his chair once more. “Back to your original question. Albus was… distressed, I would say… that he would need to keep his distance from you. But he did not wish to alarm you by explaining himself, or telling you anything about this link to the Dark Lord. And if it heartens you at all, we had quite the row regarding your alleged burglary. He insisted, quite adamantly, that you would never commit such an act on your own, and that it must be proof that the Dark Lord was deeply entrenched already in your mind. I tried to tell him that he was blind to you, and that it was likely your heritage making itself fully known, and the headmaster was so appalled by my… hm, aspersions of your character that he invited me to leave his office.”

Harry almost choked at that. His head whipped up of its own accord. “He kicked you out?”

Snape’s lips twisted sourly. “Believe me, it was much worse than that. I would have preferred to have been ordered out in a fit of pique. No, Albus simply said that I had devolved into—now, what did he say? Rather juvenile theatrics, I believe. And then he suggested I act out my temper tantrum elsewhere.”

Harry felt as though his eyes had nearly bugged out of their sockets. Not only at the news of the headmaster treating Snape like a badly-behaved student, but at the fact that Snape himself was sharing this with him. Voluntarily. He didn’t know what to say.

“Well, I guess it seemed like I was a rotten little prat, though,” he offered weakly. “And it’s not like I haven’t gotten into trouble—”

“Don’t waste your magnanimity on me, Mr. Potter,” Snape advised him dryly. “I can admit to pig-headedness, as your mother would have called it.”

Harry nearly interrupted then to know just how Snape and his mother had known each other. But he had a feeling that Snape wouldn’t divulge much still, that he would get the same brush-off he’d received the other times when he’d poked into Snape’s personal history.

Snape continued, “I merely meant to illustrate how very much the headmaster thinks of you, to lay to rest any concerns you have on that front. He does not, I assure you, often permit himself to be so blunt with his staff.”

Harry wanted to tell the man thanks, though he wasn’t sure what for. There was no way to express it, really. But Snape had been like this with him a few times now. Candid. Open. Even about painful or embarrassing things.

It made the Veritaserum business rankle just a little bit less.

None of which helped with the horrible problem he was now facing down.

“What do we do about the link, though?” Harry demanded. “I mean… what if he _does_ figure out more about it? What if he starts to use it against me? What if he _can_ influence me through it, or even see through me, or possess me? What—”

“Slow down,” Snape commanded. “What we _do_ at this juncture is what we have already begun. Last night we began with the very basics of Occlumency. We will continue down that path. I will teach you to calm your mind, first, and then to master it, and then to shield it. It will be difficult, and likely unpleasant at times, but I should be able to instruct you sufficiently to protect yourself from the worst of the Dark Lord’s influence, even if he should discover and begin actively using this link.” Snape paused then and, after meeting Harry’s panicked gaze steadily for a second or two, added, “You are not grappling with this alone.”

Those words sank into Harry like warm water soaking into his bones. He remembered Snape’s hand on his back the night before, the steadiness and patience and care, and his throat went tight again. “Thanks,” he croaked.

Snape sent him a disapproving look that Harry took to mean that thanks were not welcome, not for this. And strangely, that made him all the more grateful.

XXXXX

 _Potions went well_.

Harry never thought he would be writing those words—at least, not absent of any irony. But it had. Snape had insisted on a lesson that afternoon, and Harry had managed not to protest, though he secretly had begun mourning the death of the remarkable truce they’d achieved.

 _Gone well_ was not to say _gone perfectly,_ of course, but it was a hell of a lot better than Harry had imagined. Harry had done his best, but inevitably he’d made missteps when preparing his potion. Some had been due to ignorance of the terminology, like the pistils. Harry was still unsure how he could be expected to know what a dewclaw was, or how he should separate it from the rest of the desiccated lynx paw (he tried not to shudder too much as Snape deftly demonstrated that technique, crunching the bones and twisting the dried sinew until it gave way).

Others, he could freely admit, were the kind of careless and avoidable mistakes that caused Snape to call his students dunderheads.

Thankfully, Snape was watchful when they were in his lab—though not exactly kind about correcting his student.

_Potter, how many ounces of beetle eyes are called for? And how many do you have weighed out presently? And do you have the mental capacity to recognize that you have named two separate numbers?_

Yes, Snape was as acidic and unforgiving as ever at those moments. What was different, though, was the way that, after those vitriolic words had left his mouth, he would seemingly step back for a moment, compose himself, and then offer the same criticism far more neutrally.

_Too much rosewater, Potter. Consult the text and decant it again._

Admittedly, he did not like being “Potter” when Snape was irritated, but he supposed it could have been much worse. The man made an effort—both to restrain himself and to actually instruct Harry. And Harry could say he’d learned. He’d successfully brewed a Hair Removal Tonic. And he didn’t feel like he needed to avoid Snape for a few days.

In fact, despite all the near-disasters Harry had caused in the lab, Snape remained amicable (or, amicable for Snape) during the hour set aside for Occlumency. They spent a good portion of the time talking—Harry describing to Snape what it was like for him when he was swept up by an emotion, and Snape in turn offering some feedback on maintaining control of the emotion, and detaching when practical. Then Snape had guided Harry through a kind of meditation, just as he had the previous night, before dismissing Harry to “relax a bit before dinner”.

“Mind I said ‘relax’,” Snape had added as he pushed himself up from his armchair. “Cleaning and studying do not fall into that category.”

The man seemed to mostly be teasing, but there was a hint of warning in those words too. And like before, Harry found himself both embarrassed and grateful that the professor was so concerned about him overexerting himself.

Harry decided to oblige him by writing to his friends. Though he found himself hesitating when he thought about the previous night’s events, and Snape’s sudden announcement that he would be seeing a Mind Healer. That, he thought, was too personal for a letter.

Instead, he settled for asking about Sirius and Remus. Snape hadn’t said anything again to Harry about speaking to the two of him, which was fine, because Harry didn’t understand why the man even cared in the first place. Snape didn’t care for either Lupin or his godfather, so shouldn’t he be pleased that Harry really wanted nothing to do with either of them?

Guilt was gnawing at him again, though. Harry knew he wasn’t being entirely fair. He was still mad at Dumbledore, too, though less so than before. He knew that all three of them—Remus, Sirius, and Dumbledore—cared about him. Snape had said so, after all, and what reason would Snape have to lie to Harry about that?

So after detailing the surprisingly not disastrous potions lesson, he carefully wrote to Ron (because he didn’t feel like getting a lecture from Hermione), _How’s Sirius holding up? And Remus? You think they’re both still mad at me?_

And then, because he knew he’d strike the line out, or rip the whole letter up, if he looked at it much longer, Harry rolled up the parchment (thank Merlin for Quick-Dry Ink) and tied it off so that it would be ready to send out with Hermione’s after supper.

Though really, he thought, it was cowardly to go about this so indirectly. He should speak to both Remus and Sirius and explain, like Snape had suggested. He knew the man thought that the way he was handling this whole situation was ridiculous.

Maybe he would ask Snape about going back to Grimmauld Place sometime. Eventually.

XXXXX

 _Don’t be such a coward_.

Harry readjusted his grip on his wand. Snape had said he could. Had said that it wouldn’t be an issue. Had even seemed irritated, even, when Harry had refused to do illegal magic. And he trusted Snape wouldn’t set him up with the Ministry—that was just daft. Which meant only one thing.

“Lumos.” The tip of Harry’s wand glowed just slightly, casting a pleasant bluish-white light that was somehow more welcome than the dim electric bulbs of the overhead lighting in his room.

Harry waited, tense, for the flutter of owl wings, for the tap of a beak at the window—anything to herald the end of his career as a wizard. He held his breath.

A minute passed. Another breath, another minute, several more… nothing.

Harry exhaled heavily. And then he readjusted into a more comfortable position and resumed his perusal of the defense tome he’d borrowed from Snape’s shelves, the one the man had suggested when Harry had asked what they would be studying in their lessons.

Nonverbal spells. Harry studied the illustration of two wizards circling each other for a moment before turning his attention to the introduction to the theory.

He was so engrossed in his reading that the rap on his door startled him so much that his wand, still lit, slipped from his hand and onto the bedroom floor. He cursed to himself and bent over to retrieve it, and called out, “Just a second!” to Snape.

“Are you decent?” the professor demanded through the door.

“Yes,” Harry retorted. Did Snape think he slept in the nude or something? He managed to snag his wand and was just sitting back up when Snape entered.

“Ah,” the man stated simply. “Playing with your actual wand, I see.”

Harry hated that the blood rushed so readily to his face. “Would you stop that?” he demanded, flustered, before he could stop himself.

Snape just arched a brow at him, the quizzical expression just barely visible in the blue-white light of the Lumos. “Stop what?”

“Making references to… that!”

Snape just smirked. “No. You have a phone call downstairs, and your godfather has sent me a very civil and carefully-worded request to Floo call you.”

Harry blanched. “He… he has?”

“Yes. But Mrs. Applewhite is waiting on the line.”

“Oh.” His mind felt as if it had been gummed up. He couldn’t form thoughts, not about Sirius, not about what he would say to Mrs. Applewhite, not about what he could say to Snape to plausibly beg off everything. “I’ll… when did you get the phone fixed?”

“Stalling, Mr. Potter?”

“No. I just… what should I say to her?” Harry shuffled out into the hall, past Snape, Noxing his wand as he did so.

“She just wants to know you’re well, I imagine. I would recommend not mentioning anything to do with magic, of course—”

“As if I would!”

“Apart from that, just chat with the woman.” Snape glanced over at Harry, no trace of teasing in his expression now. “You managed well enough before. Why are you so distressed now?”

Harry shrugged. “It was easier before… well, we didn’t talk about personal things. Like… like how I was brought up, or what she thought of my aunt and uncle.”

“I don’t imagine she is about to pry into your worst memories, Harry. If you’re uncomfortable, you can always make some excuse to hang up.”

“Right.” Harry shoved his hands in his pocket to keep from wringing them. “But… about Sirius. I don’t know if… if….”

“I think you should speak to him. The same principle applies with Floo calls, you realize—you can end it at any time. And I would not even expect you to make an excuse for that—for your godfather.”

“I just don’t think I’m ready—”

“You’ve distorted your godfather’s letter to you into something it is not. And though it pains me to say it, I suspect that Lupin, Black, and Mrs. Weasley’s responses to your presumed criminal activities were shaped by the fear that the Dark Lord had some hold over you. I suspect it was more palatable for them to believe that you were susceptible to teenage rebellion and poor choices, rather than confront the possibility that you might be subject to something so horrible.”

Harry couldn’t respond for a moment. When he finally did find his voice, he barely managed to choke out, “They _knew_?”

“Albus informed the Order of the barest sketch of his suspicions—that your scar was troublesome and could be the source of your altered behavior.” Snape folded his hands tightly behind his back and turned slightly, so that he was no longer facing Harry head-on. “He thought it was prudent for all of us to be aware, so that we could keep a closer eye on you.”

“And he didn’t think to tell me?” Harry demanded bitterly.

“He did not wish to spoil your summer with burdens he felt you did not need to bear. I disagreed. And as I’ve already said, I don’t think there is even cause for worry, based on what I’ve seen.”

Harry opened his mouth to tell Snape about the anger he sometimes felt… but then closed it again.

“And all of this can be discussed _later_ , as Mrs. Applewhite has been waiting long enough.”

Harry nodded and followed Snape down the stairs and into the kitchen, where he pointed toward the pea green receiver of a wall phone that looked as if it had been stolen right out of the seventies.

Drawing a bracing breath, Harry picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Harry!” Mrs. Applewhite cried on the other end. “So good to hear from you, dear. I’ve been trying to get through for days, but I suppose your father there dawdled about getting things set up on your end. But how are you, dear? Is he treating you well?”

Harry was glad that Snape had, after a meaningful look, drifted back into the sitting room to give Harry some privacy. “I’m well, yeah. And things have been… good. Actually, really good. He takes care of me, you know, and he’s started giving me lessons. I… I think he really cares about me.”

Why had he said that? He supposed it was true, but still, it wasn’t something he needed to say aloud, was it?

“Of course he cares. Never said he didn’t. Just said he was lousy at it. Good that he’s giving you lessons, though. Seems book smart, your father, even if he’s arse-backwards when it comes to parental responsibility. And you’re such a smart boy yourself, Harry. What’s he teaching you then? Maths? Latin? Can’t see him giving a literature course….”

“Um, chemistry, actually. He has a degree. And… self-defense.” Close enough. “And he’s been teaching me some—well, it’s like meditation.”

“Hm.” A little more skeptical this time. “He sit on the floor all cross-legged when he teaches you?”

Harry snorted. “No. Not quite like that.” Lord help them—Snape the Yogi. “It’s good. It’s all about clearing your thoughts and quieting your mind and things.”

“He ever set up an appointment for you then? With my daughter’s friend?”

Harry froze, then stammered, “Sort of. I mean, no, not with her, but… but he found someone closer, I think. He’s making me go tomorrow.” _Even thought I don’t want to because it’ll be a giant waste of time_ , Harry added silently.

“Good,” Mrs. Applewhite stated emphatically. “It’s good to talk it out with someone who knows what they’re about.”

“I don’t think I need to, though,” Harry protested before he could stop himself. “I just mean—I’m not going back to them, my father said. And I get that they were awful. So that’s sorted.”

“The brain doesn’t work that way, dear,” Mrs. Applewhite replied, and for once her voice wasn’t crisp and energetic, but weighed down with sorrow. “Would be nice if it did. But healing takes time, and sometimes it gets worse before it gets better. And nothing ever got better by ignoring it.”

Harry hated how similar that sounded to what Snape had told him—about letting things fester. Even more, he hated how much he was beginning to feel like there was a truth to that. “I’m going. I just don’t know what to expect.”

“Don’t expect anything. Just try talking a bit, about whatever’s on your mind. You’re paying them to do the heavy work, remember.”

Mrs. Applewhite steered the conversation toward her garden then, and the flowers that were blooming. Harry was happy to let her prattle on about inconsequential things—neighborhood gossip about the neighbor whose cat had been shaved buying an Egyptian hairless because she found out she was allergic to cat hair, the saga of her sister’s latest attempts to keep a goat on her property, a summary of the letter she’d written to the local paper excoriating the local police for their incompetence. After another twenty or so minutes Mrs. Applewhite wrapped the conversation up, saying it was late enough in the evening and that she should be getting her old bones to bed. And she promised to call back within the week to check on Harry.

Harry hung the phone back up on the wall and made his way back into the sitting room, where Snape was lounging in his armchair with a tome splayed on his knee.

“If you say a word about the cost of a Mind Healer, Potter, I swear—”

“You listened?” Harry cried, though he wasn’t all that shocked.

“No. But I can guess well enough that the subject came up, and I know that look on your face, believe me.”

“But if it _is_ really expensive—”

“That’s none of your concern, and that’s an end to the matter. Are you ready to call your godfather?”

Harry wrinkled his nose. “It’s pretty late, you know. I could call tomorrow—”

“But you will call tonight.” Snape moved to the mantle and pulled down a small covered bronze dish.

“You don’t even like Sirius—”

“Yes, but unfortunately I like you. So I will just have to tolerate the mutt’s presence in my fireplace, won’t I?” Snape threw down some powder and shouted something.

Harry had no idea what, though. His ears were still ringing. First Snape was fond of him, now he liked Harry…. Harry couldn’t swallow either of those realities. It was too much.

“Where’s Harry, Sni—Snape?” Sirius’ voice sounded a bit petulant to Harry.

Snape’s answering tone was rather harsh for someone who had insisted on making this Floo call. “You might wish to show some respect, Black. I might yet change my mind about this.”

To Harry’s ears, it sounded like Sirius might have been grinding teeth together. “May I _please_ speak to my godson?”

Harry expected Snape to sweep aside then and pull Harry over to the grate, but it seemed that Snape could not resist needling Sirius just one more time. “I take it your pleas to Albus fell on deaf ears, then?”

“Damn it, Snape, what the hell is… fine. Yes, fine, the headmaster wouldn’t change his mind. He still thinks _you_ should mind Harry, though I think the kid’s suffered enough. Now let me talk to him.”

“Let me talk to him…?” Snape prompted, sounding very much to Harry like his hated Potions Professor hovering over a trembling first year.

“Let me talk to him, _pretty please_.”

“I could do without the sarcasm, Black, but I suppose I shouldn’t hope for too much with you. Harry.”

Harry shuffled forward, uncertain once more. Maybe Snape’s distaste for him had been reignited by speaking to Sirius? Maybe some of that fondness had eroded again?

Snape regarded him evenly as he approached. “Call if you need anything,” he said simply. “I’ll be in the lab.”

Harry nodded, dropping his eyes again. Much better looking at the floor than Snape’s impassive face. “Thanks.”

Snape seemed to hesitate for a moment, then reached a hand out and squeezed Harry’s shoulder very briefly before sweeping out of the room.

That small bit of contact quelled the uneasiness in Harry’s stomach, and bolstered him for the conversation to come. He knelt down in front of the hearth, on the very stones where, just weeks ago, he’d laid out his single set of clothes to dry in the dead of night. Sirius’ head floated there, a ghostly greenish-white; his grim expression broke into a grin when Harry finally settled down.

“Harry,” Sirius greeted him. There was a mix of emotions there—delight, relief, but also reservation, as if he were treading carefully. “How are you holding up, kiddo?”

“Fine. Actually….” Harry hated this, that Snape and Sirius were at odds. He could almost feel the diatribe building in his godfather about how awful Snape must be, and wouldn’t Harry like to stay at Grimmauld Place? But he needed Sirius to understand how much had changed with Snape. Hell, he needed himself to understand how much things had changed, because it still felt surreal to him most days. “Actually, really great. S….” Harry swallowed over the name. Things had changed, he told himself, and he needed Sirius to understand, and this was one small thing he could do to make his godfather understand. “Severus is going to teach me some Defense.”

“Severus?” Sirius echoed, like it was a foreign word he didn’t understand.

As it was, Harry was resisting the urge to turn to look behind him, to see if Snape was storming up from the cellar to rebuke him. “He wants me to call him that. Thinks it’s better for us, you know. To move past things.”

Sirius’s expression grew pained. “Harry, I know your friends said that you weren’t under the influence of anything, but that man’s intentions aren’t good, I promise you. There are things about him that you don’t know, things he’s done—”

“I know he was a Death Eater,” Harry snapped, though he tried not to think too deeply about that. “And that he’s working for Dumbledore now. And that he’s been taking good care of me and letting me stay here—”

“Harry,” Sirius cut in, “next to your relatives, anyone would look good.”

Harry flushed. “He told everyone about the Dursleys?” he hissed.

“You told me about the Dursleys,” Sirius replied gently. “In your letters. Remember?”

Oh. “Right. But… I didn’t say much… but never mind.”

“Say much about what?” Sirius’ voice turned sharper than Harry liked then. “I can gather well enough what they’re like. I heard Lily and James talk about them enough. And what am I to think when you have to keep them in line by telling them I’ll turn them into bats?” Sirius’ expression grew darker. “Not to mention when they let their son frame you for a felony, and leave you in prison—”

“Sirius, it wasn’t prison, it was a detention center—”

“I don’t care if it was a bloody daycare center! They left you there even after they were told about how dangerous it was for you to be out and about—”

“They’re Muggles, Sirius, they don’t get Voldemort at all—”

“Oh, they bloody well do,” Sirius snarled. “They _get_ that Lily and James were murdered. That should be more than enough.”

“They’re kind of dumb,” Harry offered.

Sirius’ expression remained hard for a moment before dissolving into a small smirk. “They are. But that doesn’t excuse what they did.”

“I know.” Harry fidgeted with the hem of his shirt for a few seconds before sucking in a breath and blurting, “How could you think I robbed Mrs. Applewhite?”

A glance up, and though Harry knew he couldn’t possibly discern the nuances of his godfather’s face through the Floo, he could have sworn the man was blushing. “Ah, that. Well… I’m not proud. And Moony either, you know, though he really was concerned that everything had been too much for you. We’d heard it from Dumbledore, you see, so we thought… well. And it seemed like something James and I would do for a lark. We’ve done worse, actually—and believe me, I’m not proud of that either. I want you to follow in your father’s footsteps, Harry, but not like that, not the stupid things we did when the only thing that mattered to us was having a laugh.”

“What did you do that was worse?” Harry asked softly.

Sirius wouldn’t meet Harry’s eyes then. “Plenty of things. Nothing you need to hear about. Prongs—your father—he was a good man. He loved your mother, and he loved you, and he spent the last bit of his life standing up for what he believed in, protecting people who needed protecting. We all do stupid things when we’re young, things we aren’t proud of—”

“Like following Voldemort?” Harry couldn’t help but inquire.

Sirius winced, and Harry didn’t know if it was because of the name or the truth, or both at once. “Maybe,” he allowed grudgingly. “But that’s a hell of a lot different than stupid childish pranks. If you followed You-Know-Who, you killed people, or at least got them killed.”

Harry swallowed hard. “You… you think Snape….”

“I don’t know,” Sirius admitted. “But he’s dark, Harry. He was always interested in the Dark Arts, even in school.”

“I’m interested in the Dark Arts.”

“Not like him. Not like the Malfoys. You’re interested in them because you need to learn how to defend against them. Him….”

“He made me talk to you,” Harry said suddenly.

“Made you?”

Harry shifted a bit, leaning his weight more over his knees. He should have just sat down, he knew. But he didn’t like that. He wanted to feel like he could walk away at any time, especially now. “Yeah. I didn’t want to… I’ve been pretty mad at you. And he made me sit down and read your letters the other day, and write a reply—”

“I never got a reply! That bastard—”

“Don’t. Don’t call him that. I didn’t send it. I was so angry, and I wrote it all down… I had to write it a few times before it was civil, and then it was… I don’t know. Kind of empty, stilted. He asked if I even wanted to send it, and I said no. He just… wanted me to deal with my feelings. And he said you were probably just worried about me, and didn’t want to think it was Voldemort making me act out.”

If Sirius had been blushing before, now Harry would have put Galleons on the man going pale. “What do you mean, Voldemort making you… what did he tell you?”

“About the scar, and the link. He thought I should know. He said he thinks I’m fine, but he’s going to teach me some mind magic or something to help, just in case.”

Sirius didn’t answer right away. After a few silent moments filled only with the crackle of the fire and the ticking of the clock on the mantle, Sirius said, “Well, I agree that you should have been told. Has your scar been hurting at all?”

“No.”

“Good.” Sirius was quiet for a few more seconds, then, he echoed dumbly, “Snape _made_ you call me?”

“Yes. He didn’t give me a choice.”

“Well.” Sirius seemed at a loss. “You said… you said he’s been good to you?”

“Sirius, he goes spare if I try to do anything around the house. At first when I got here, he had me doing projects and chores and all, which wasn’t a big deal. So I had things I’d started, and then he found out about what really happened… anyway, after that I’d get bored, so I’d start working on things again, and he just… he goes livid. He’s really mad that I did so much in Little Whinging. He won’t even let me cook for myself.” Harry swallowed. “I… I think he did something to the Dursleys. He went to visit them—I don’t know, to figure things out about how they treated me—but I think he did something else too, though he won’t tell me what.”

Sirius actually smiled grimly at that, and for a moment Harry could once again see the wanted man that had been plastered across the Prophet his third year. “Well, can’t say they don’t deserve it. And I would wager Snape’s crafty enough to work around the law and the Ministry. If I didn’t have to lay low, I promise you they would have already heard from me.” Sirius’ smile faded. “I don’t know. Dumbledore trusts him, I suppose. And… I admit, it seems he’s been decent to you so far. Just… be careful, Harry, please. Don’t put too much faith in him. Your mother made that mistake.”

“What do you mean?” Harry demanded. “Snape knew my mother?”

“They were friends for a bit, until he turned on her. Called her—well, you know, that foul word for a Muggleborn. Showed his true colors. He’s Slytherin, don’t forget. They’re all wily like that.”

“Wormtail was pretty damned wily too,” Harry muttered, though his heart wasn’t in it. He was stuck mulling over what Sirius had said about Snape and his mother.

“Yes,” Sirius agreed quietly. “Just be careful, like I said.”

“I will.”

Another pause, then Sirius asked, “Are you still mad at me, then?”

“Not really,” Harry sighed. His legs were really starting to ache, so he dropped to the ground and stretched them out in front of him.

“Moony?”

“Kind of. But about different things. I just… need to talk to him.”

Sirius nodded. “You’re… you’re really a good kid, Harry. It’s hard to believe sometimes, you know, with everything you’ve been through. I guess a lot of us figured it would be natural for you to snap somehow. It’s more surprising that you didn’t.”

Harry shrugged. “It’s not that big of a deal—”

“It is. You’re more mature than any of the Marauders ever were at your age. Moony and I, we keep expecting you to act like us—like a dumb kid. But you’re not.”

“I do plenty of dumb things—”

“Not like us, though. Not just for the hell of it. When you do things, there’s a good reason behind it. You’re trying to help someone, or save someone, even though it isn’t your job.”

Harry grinned to himself. “Is the universe going implode if you and Snape agree on something?”

Sirius snorted. “What do you mean?”

“He told me the exact same thing—about not having to save people and all.”

“Hm. No, that just means that maybe Snape’s head isn’t as far up his arse as I always thought.”

“He’d say the same about you, I bet.”

“Ah, but he’d have to word it fancily to show off his vocabulary, you know. Let’s see… ‘It is quite possible that Black’s cranium is not as firmly lodged in his rectum as I once postulated’. Or, ‘New data indicates that Black’s swollen noggin has not encroached quite as far into his anus as previously—”

“Stop!” Harry laughed.

“Too much? Ah, well, it’s getting late anyway. Best wrap this up before you get in trouble for being up past bedtime.”

“I go to bed whenever.”

Sirius dropped his voice to a stage whisper. “Don’t say that—you’ll summon the great bat himself to prove you wrong.”

“You’re going to have to stop insulting each other to me, you know.”

“Oh, come now, ‘bat’ is hardly an insult. It’s just a description.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Night, Sirius.”

“Goodnight, Harry. See if you can get old Dracula to fly you over sometime again, all right?”

“If you start with the vampire insults, I’m not going to defend you when he starts making jibes about fleas,” Harry threatened.

“Hey,” Sirius cried in mock-offense. “Fleas are nothing to jest about, believe me—”

“Good _night_ , Sirius.”

Sirius just grinned back disarmingly before disappearing from the fireplace, leaving the grate dark and cold in his absence.

Harry pushed himself up off the ground, deciding it was time to retire. He’d say goodnight to… to Severus… first, though.

And then hopefully he could somehow meditate away the shadows he’d glimpsed more than once in his godfather’s eyes. 


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Therapy, a tense discussion, and some light reading.

Harry was beginning to regret his acquiescence to this. It had seemed like less of an affair when Snape had brought it up initially. No, he hadn’t liked it then, and had always had reservations, but he never imagined this dread in the pit of his stomach when he’d agreed to do this without a fuss.

That was before the check-in process. The clerk at the desk in the Mind Healing ward had assured them that this was just for first-time patients. But the wait then had been unbearable. Harry had filled out assessment after assessment about things like his mood, his self-worth, anxiety, history of mind-altering potion, magic, and substance use, an explanation of the protective wards governing the discussion of anything revealed during appointments… he thought it would never end. This all while Snape filled out his own stack of paperwork for God knew what.

But after a small eternity it did end, and the witch at the front desk returned to collect them and usher them into a comfortably furnished office with a single long sofa along the back wall.

Harry found himself jiggling a knee nervously as they waited. A glance over at Snape told him the man was faring much better than he was—he lounged back against the settee, legs stretched out in front of him, one arm extended over the back of the settee. Snape stared at the ceiling, face pinched in a dour, unamused expression, as the two of them waited for the Mind Healer to arrive.

“Maybe they forgot,” Harry began, only to be cut off immediately by Snape.

“We are staying for the full hour regardless of what excuses you try to make.”

Harry exhaled, returning his gaze to his bouncing knee. “I’m just saying, I don’t think this is actually necessary—”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Was I not clear earlier? I _do not care_ what you think.”

Snape had definitely turned testier since their arrival at St. Mungo’s. Harry couldn’t fathom why, since this whole farce had been the potion master’s idea to begin with.

Harry laced his hands together tightly. “This is stupid.”

Snape scoffed. “You haven’t even begun. How could you possibly know?”

“ _You_ don’t even want to be here—”

The door to the office swung inward and a round, middle-aged witch with dark hair and a small mole above her lip swept in, a bright smile on her face. “Mr. Snape? Mr. Potter?”

Snape stood as she extended a hand and shook it cordially. Belatedly, Harry realized what was going on and pushed himself to his feet, nearly tripping over the coffee table in front of him as he stretched to take the Mind Healer’s hand as well.

“Healer Angela,” Snape greeted her formally, his tone placid. “Thank you for taking us.”

Angela smiled again. Harry decided she was probably vapid and full of the kind of nonsense Trelawney would spew, minus the astrological references. “My pleasure. Please, sit—and I do hope you can excuse me for my tardiness. I was reviewing the initial paperwork you filled out, Mr. Snape, and it was quite lengthy—”

“Professor,” Snape corrected her, an irritated edge reemerging in his tone. “And it was lengthy because of the numerous significant events in Mr. Potter’s life that you need to be aware of.”

Harry couldn’t stop himself—the outrage swept over him like a breaking wave. He whipped to face Snape and demanded, “What in the hell did you write? You think I can’t tell her things myself—”

“I _think_ ,” Snape retorted, his black eyes flashing as he met Harry’s gaze, “that your inability to discuss anything of importance is the whole reason we are here.”

“I have,” Harry snapped right back. “I just want to do it on my own time. I don’t see why you thought this was a good idea—”

“We’ve discussed this. You agreed.”

“You asked if I was going to come nicely or kicking and screaming. That’s not much of a discussion—”

“Mr. Potter,” the Healer cut in, her voice firm. “Professor Snape. Do you think this conversation is helpful?”

Harry felt the Healer’s gaze on him now, along with Snape’s. “No,” he muttered, subsiding back onto the settee. “But—”

“Professor Snape?” the Healer continued briskly.

Snape’s head swiveled back the Healer, his gaze accusatory. “You propose I ignore his defiance?”

Harry winced and unlaced his fingers so he could wrap his arms over his stomach. Wonderful. This whole stupid, pointless visit was going to agitate Snape and drive a wedge between them.

The Healer cocked her head slightly, her expression impassive. “Elaborate on what you mean by ‘defiance’, if you would.”

To Harry’s utter shock, Snape’s cheeks colored and the man averted his gaze to the side. “I do not… it was a poor choice of word.”

The Healer settled into the overstuffed armchair angled toward the settee rather than behind her desk. “Perhaps you could choose a better one, then,” she suggested mildly.

Snape huffed, his eyes flashing back up. “This session is for Mr. Potter, not myself—”

“And it would benefit Mr. Potter, I believe, to hear from you precisely why you are frustrated.” The Healer turned to Harry. “Or perhaps he could simply explain himself what he believes you mean.”

A glance at Snape told him that the man had no intention of speaking, so Harry closed his eyes. “I’m embarrassing him with my outbursts.” Harry swallowed, and then offered meekly to his guardian, “Sorry. I know I agreed, but I just… I really think this is a waste of time. And I hate being here.” And then, realizing how that sounded, he opened his eyes and added to the Mind Healer, “No offense.”

“You are not embarrassing me.” It sounded as though Snape might be grinding his teeth. “And I do wish you would stop concerning yourself with that. What bothers me is your defensiveness, as if anything I might have relayed to the Healer is any cause for shame to you. And worse, as though I would do any such thing if I did not believe there was a dire need for it.”

Ah. Snape was angry about a lack of trust. That made sense.

“Professor, from what I have reviewed, you allege that Mr. Potter has had a less than ideal home life. That his Muggle relatives have kept their distance from him due to their magic phobia, is that correct?”

“Mr. Potter is right here,” Harry muttered, crossing his arms and leaning back into the settee. “And yes, that is _correct_.”

Harry waited for a rebuke from Snape for his behavior. He knew he was being petulant. He just didn’t care much.

Now the Healer colored. “I… apologize. I was also led to believe that you were in deep denial of this. In fact, I’d planned to spend a great deal of our time today reframing your thoughts and working toward acknowledgment. But that is not the case?”

“I know they were bad. I just disagree with S….” God, why did this have to be so hard? It was just a name. A name he desperately wanted to be able to say, especially to make up for his implication just moments ago that he didn’t trust Snape. “I disagree with… with Severus….” Harry paused, waiting for—well, he wasn’t sure what. Lightning to rain down from the ceiling? The man he’d named to announce detention? The earth to swallow him whole? But nothing came, so he resumed talking, and talked quickly, as if the more words he said, the further that little misstep would fade into the background. “I disagree about how important it is now. I mean, I have bigger things to worry about. I don’t have nightmares about my relatives.”

“You hesitate over what to call him,” the Healer pointed out neutrally.

“He’s my professor,” Harry excused himself weakly. “But my guardian now, too.” A peek at Snape revealed nothing but an unreadable expression.

“I know you are grappling with a lot at the moment, Mr. Potter. An upheaval in your home life, re-forging a relationship with a man who has treated you very poorly in the recent past, processing trauma and death, not to mention the constant specter of a dark and terrible wizard who has taken so much from you.”

Harry resisted the urge to demand from the woman whether she believed him or not when he said that Voldemort was back. It was hardly important for these little sessions, after all.

“But I cannot believe that compartmentalization of all these struggles is healthy, or even an effective way of managing your healing. All of these aspects of your life intertwine—and so yes, I will be referring to your time with your relatives and encouraging gentle exploration of the ways that has shaped you and your beliefs.”

Harry drew a deep breath and struggled to resign himself to this.

“But,” the Healer continued, “I will not see you if you are not completely willing to be here. I know that Professor Snape means well by bringing you here, but there is nothing to be gained if you feel cornered into this. There is nothing to be gained by taking even more control from you.”

Snape seemed to take offense at this. He stood very suddenly, lips so tight they were nearly invisible. “Just because the boy cannot see the benefit in this now—”

The Healer turned her steady gaze to Snape. “Professor, please believe me when I say that I have been doing this for many years. I have seen more than my fair share of adolescents dragged here by well-meaning parents hoping to force them into taking the medicine needed for their ills. But this is not a Fever Reducer that you need to trick your ward into swallowing. This is a process, one requiring the establishment of mutual trust, one that relies on the patient feeling empowered and safe. None of which can be created under duress.”

“I would hardly call it duress,” Snape growled, tightening his robes around himself. “It’s not as if I’ve threatened him—”

“Consciously, no. But you will withhold your approval if Mr. Potter chooses to walk out without speaking another word to me.”

“I hardly think my approval is so meaningful to Harry—”

“No?” the Healer retorted, before deliberately shifting her—and Snape’s—attention to Harry. “Would it upset you, Harry, to know that Professor Snape was not pleased with you?”

Harry hung his head. He wanted to lie. He wanted to deny that he was so pathetic. But even the possibility of upsetting Snape by refusing to do therapy twisted his gut in a knot. And if the Healer did not spot it, Snape would certainly sniff out any lie Harry tried to spin.

“Yeah, but just because….”

“I wouldn’t punish you,” Snape cut in stiffly.

“I know.” Harry hugged his midsection again, wishing he could just fade away. “I don’t care about that, even. I just… I don’t want you to think I’m selfish or spoiled or arrogant again. And sometimes I act that way without thinking—”

“Harry,” Snape murmured softly, his tone suddenly heavy and sad.

Harry jerked his head up, startled by the change.

Carefully, slowly, as if trying not to startle him, Snape extended a hand to rest on Harry’s shoulder. “You act like a boy with the weight of the world on his shoulders. I told you, I see you now—not the caricature of your father I’d drawn for myself. And I have told you before that you will not be perfect. That we will clash on many occasions because of disagreements just like this. But do not ever— _ever_ —believe that I think less of you for it.”

“It’s hard not to believe,” Harry said faintly, his eyes on the black-clad arm that was anchoring them together.

“I know.” Snape let his eyes fall shut, and then inhaled and exhaled heavily. “Much as I hate it, this is your decision. If you do not wish to continue, I will take you home.”

 _Home_. The word still gave Harry a little thrill every time Snape said it. “You wouldn’t be mad?”

“I would worry for you. And with me… I believe you know how that tends to manifest.”

Worry. Right. That was why Snape had been so short with him at times, especially recently. It was still so hard to believe that it wasn’t because Snape hated him.

“But I would do my best to monitor myself and to keep my moods in check.” Snape squeezed Harry’s shoulder lightly. “I will support you regardless of what you decide to do. I know I tend to be a bit more… heavy-handed… when it comes to certain things. But I am trying to learn.”

Harry nodded shakily. “Me too. To trust you. To trust that you know what you’re doing.” Harry focused on the warm hand on his shoulder. “I’ll try it. This—therapy. But… but if it’s not for me….”

“I will not force you to come.” One final squeeze before Snape dropped his hand completely.

“It is courageous of you to do this, Mr. Potter,” the Healer told him.

Harry tried to muster the energy for a smile for her. “Thanks. I know it shouldn’t be such a big deal—”

“But it is,” she replied solemnly. “You’re agreeing to make yourself vulnerable to an essential stranger. That is not easy for anyone, especially someone who has been hurt or ridiculed before.”

Harry didn’t know what else to say, so he shrugged.

“I’d like to use the remainder of our session to explore a few things together, Mr. Potter, if that is all right. I think that it will be helpful to continue to have the first half of your sessions with Professor Snape present, and to use the second half to do some work one on one. Are you amenable to that?”

“Sure.”

Snape took his cue to leave. “I will be just out in the lobby when you finish,” he told Harry.

Harry nodded again, though he couldn’t help but watch as Snape retreated, closing the door softly behind him.

At last Harry turned his attention back to the Healer. “So,” he said.

She smiled kindly at him. “So. Mr. Potter.”

“You can call me Harry.”

“Harry. Tell me, have you ever heard of a Pensieve?”

Harry felt his spine go rigid. “Professor Dumbledore has one.”

The Healer nodded. “Yes, the Headmaster of Hogwarts has always had access to one. They are exceedingly rare and powerful—not exactly your standard pewter cauldron. You know what they do?”

“They hold memories.”

“Yes. More importantly, they allow another to move within those memories. Yes, you’re nodding—you’ve experienced this? Well, my profession makes use of the Pensieve as well. It is a powerful tool for us to revisit difficult memories and view them as observers. Now, this is our first session, and I would not expect you to be willing to dive into this process—but I would like to offer the choice. If you are willing, we could explore one memory of yours, any of your choosing, just as a means of trying this tool.”

Harry found he couldn’t answer right away. So many thoughts were crowding in his head at once. Did he want to try the Pensieve? What even was the point? And could he even get a memory out of his head?

“You can say no, Harry,” the Healer reassured him. “There are many other ways for us to begin. And this is daunting, I know. But allowing me to see what weighs most on your mind, allowing us to discuss it as we walk through it… that can be a great aid.”

He wanted to try. Despite Snape’s reassurance that he wouldn’t be upset, Harry knew that the man would be far more pleased if Harry could honestly tell him he’d made an effort. And stupid as it was, he wanted Snape to be pleased with him. Proud, even. He wanted to be less defiant, especially now that it was so clear that Snape really meant him well, and was intelligent enough to see to needs that Harry hadn’t even been able to name.

“Okay.” Harry swallowed thickly. “But—you said any memory, right? I can pick any memory at all?”

“Any,” the Healer reassured him. “As I said, this now is just an introduction to the use of the Pensieve.” She moved to retrieve the recognizable stone basin from beneath her desk. This one, Harry saw, was different from Dumbledore’s. A glimpse beneath the shimmery liquid showed that the entirety seemed to be inlaid with mother-of-pearl, though like Dumbledore’s a series of runes were etched around the rim. The Healer hefted it onto the desk with a soft grunt. “I will help you to extract it, and I will replace it when we are finished. If I may?”

The Healer withdrew her wand—medium-length, simple rather than elaborately carved, and of a far lighter color than Harry’s or Snape’s. She caught Harry eyeing it and flashed him a smile. “Pear, nine and a quarter inches, unicorn tail hair. Still as springy as the day I purchased it from Ollivander. Good for memory magic—that he did not tell me, but I’ve found it so over the years. Come, Harry, I promise it will be all right.”

Stiffly, Harry pushed himself up and approached. Snape trusted her. Trusted this. It would be fine.

The Healer touched her wand to his temple and whispered an incantation that Harry could not make out. Harry felt rather than saw the silver tendrils that extended then into his mind.

“Any memory, Harry. Any moment that comes to mind.”

Harry drew a calming breath, as Snape had taught him—but the memory of Snape’s instructions that night sent him hurtling into the quagmire of feelings toward his professor, and the word defiance ringing out, and then the way the man had snarled at him earlier in the summer. _Your caretakers may be thick, but I certainly am not. I doubt you’ve missed a meal in your life. I do not know who you think to fool with this act…._

And then, before he could help it, he felt the edges of a memory from the previous year being tugged from his mind. He tried to stop it, tried to somehow claw at the fabric of the recollection, but everything was abstract and muddled and murky, like a dream, and a woman’s voice was whispering to him.

_Let it go, Harry. Breathe in. Breathe out. Let it go._

And then it slipped away and he found himself blinking his eyes, trying to readjust to the afternoon light of the office. He rubbed his eyes and managed to clear his vision just in time to see the Healer depositing a curling silver thread into the Pensieve.

“Sit, Harry,” she advised, and, sheathing her wand, moved to guide him by the elbow back to the sofa.

Harry did, and watched from the corner of his eye as she retrieved a quill from her desk, deftly transfigured it into a drinking glass, and filled it with a murmured _aguamenti_.

“I take it you found yourself in an unexpected place,” she commented after a few moments, when Harry had managed to take a few sips of water.

“I don’t know why I thought of it. It wasn’t even a big deal at the time. I didn’t do it. I didn’t _care_.”

“You resisted quite a bit when I went to pull the memory from you.”

“Sorry,” Harry mumbled.

“Please don’t apologize. It’s normal to protect our thoughts. You are hardly the first, and you won’t be the last.” To his surprise, the Healer sat where Snape had before, right next to him. “Forgive my forwardness, but you seem distressed. Guilt-ridden, even.”

Harry slammed his head back against the cushioned edge of the settee. “I don’t know why my mind went… there. Snape—er, Severus—has been really good to me lately, and….” He slammed his head again. “It makes no sense. He apologized. He said he was wrong.”

“You were thinking of your changing relationship with the professor, then. And it sounds as if your mind seized on a memory of a time when Professor Snape was less than kind to you. It’s perfectly normal, Harry. Expected even. Your mind right now is trying to reconcile your past and your present. When we begin to forge a new way of relating to someone, the entire way we have seen them up until that point does not simply vanish because we wish it so. Our minds work to protect us, and yours, I would theorize, is striving desperately to warn you of danger—even though the danger it perceives is obsolete now.”

Harry chewed a lip, fighting to keep a hold of his tongue.

But the Healer seemed to have an uncanny knack for perceiving what Harry didn’t want to say. “You’re not so certain this danger has passed. You worry that these misgivings you have are true.”

Harry shrugged. “I don’t _think_ Snape will turn on me or anything—he seems pretty sincere now. But….”

“Perhaps we could view your memory, Harry? Together?”

Harry closed his eyes. He didn’t want to. It seemed pretty ungrateful, even, showing her this ugly shadow of the past. But there was also a part of him that wanted the Healer to see, wanted her to tell him her thoughts on the whole thing. Because he was sick of fighting this inner war, sick of second-guessing himself. Sick of feeling impotent rage for a vindictive, cruel bastard who, for all intents and purposes, no longer existed.

“Okay.” And he followed her over to the desk, to the swirling Pensieve, and together they plunged in.

XXXXX

The Potions Classroom melded into view. Snape was up at the board, swathed in his voluminous black teaching robes, back turned as he wrote out the day’s ingredients on the board. Memory-Harry sat, head bowed together with Ron and Hermione. Hermione was flipping through a magazine— _Witch Weekly_ , Harry recalled, cringing—under the desk while Ron and Harry waited, completely ignoring Snape.

The Healer stood beside him, her expression unreadable as she surveyed the scene before her. “This was last year, Harry?” she inquired, just as Hermione finally looked up from the magazine to a comment from Ron.

“Yeah. Middle of the Triwizard Tournament.” The three of them certainly looked like a gaggle of delinquents, crowded at the back, ignoring the professor in front of them.

Hermione threw the magazine onto a chair beside her just as Snape whipped around and snarled at them to get started on their Wit-Sharpening Potion.

“Tell me a bit about this time. I imagine you were under a fair amount of stress, not only from the tasks and the strain of being a second competitor from Hogwarts. I remember the press that year….”

A glance over at the woman told Harry that her keen eyes had caught on the copy of _Witch Weekly_.

“It was… hard. My friend Ron—the redhead up there—he kind of abandoned me at the start of the year. Thought I’d put my name in the Goblet. And then Hermione got caught up in this thing with Viktor Krum—you know, the Seeker. And Ron was jealous, and there was this tension between them—and that’s not to mention me trying to figure out how to face down a dragon, and breathe underwater, and all this other stuff, _and_ be a student. And the Headmaster wasn’t really helpful at all, and….” Harry swallowed painfully, surprised at how pinched his throat had become. “It was pretty overwhelming.”

“I am going to assume this was one of the more… colorful interactions… the Professor referred to in his paperwork?” the Healer inquired delicately, her eyes sweeping once again over the classroom.

“H-he mentioned our—erm, past interactions?”

“Extensively. Namely, he is concerned that the assumptions he made about you, and that his treatment of you, will form an insurmountable barrier to repairing your relationship fully.”

Harry couldn’t seem to get a reply out of his suddenly dry throat. So he just watched the three of them—himself, Ron, and Hermione—with their heads together, chatting now more than working on their potions—and the black form of Snape stalking nearer to them, unnoticed.

**“Fascinating though your social life undoubtedly is, Miss Granger, I must ask you not to discuss it in my class. Ten points from Gryffindor.”**

Harry flinched as his past self and Ron and Hermione jumped. He remembered his resentment of the Professor that day—but watching it now? They were talking in class, clearly disrespecting Snape. Was it really such a wonder that he’d called them out on it?

And then Harry watched in horror as the man’s eyes fell to the copy of _Witch Weekly_ , and his stomach churned at seeing the sadistic look of glee come over Snape’s face. **“Ah… reading magazines under the table as well? A further ten points from Gryffindor… oh but of course… Potter has to keep up with his press cuttings….”**

Harry looked away before he had to see the man’s sickening smirk once more.

“What are you feeling right now, Harry?” the Healer inquired over the jeers and laughter of the Slytherins (and some of the Gryffindors, Harry now noticed) in the classroom.

“I was furious,” Harry croaked.

“Then, yes, I can imagine. But now, in this present moment, as you view this again? What are you feeling?”

“Shame,” Harry answered, before he could stop himself. “I feel… sick. And angry. But—but confused, too.”

“Why shame?” the Healer prompted as Snape began to read the whole ghastly article aloud. Harry was beyond grateful that she seemed to have no interest in hearing the drivel Skeeter had written.

“Because… because he thinks I’m some preening, primping little starlet in love with his own press, and he just loves that they’ve turned on me now and started to make a mockery of me. But I’m not! I’ve always hated everyone knowing who I am. I mean, sure, I enjoyed the positive attention at first, because God knows it was the only I’d ever really gotten in my whole life. So sue me! But I got over it quickly. It’s not like I was Malfoy, strutting around Hogwarts like I owned it, telling everyone how it was in their best interests to associate with me.”

“He thinks that of you, Harry, or thought that?”

Harry slumped down in one of the empty chairs in the back of the classroom, still averting his eyes from Snape’s dramatized reading. “Thought, I guess.”

“But you’re uncertain.”

Harry nodded miserably. “He really hated me just last year. Just this summer, if I’m being honest. And….”

The Healer sat down next to him. “And?” she prompted gently.

“Part of me wants to hate him right back for that. For this.” He gestured up to the front of the room. “And another part of me… well, it wonders if he’s right.”

“You think that Professor Snape might have had a valid rationale for despising you.”

Harry nodded, waiting for the inevitable, “but of course he didn’t, you’re a lovely boy, etc”.

But the reassurances didn’t come. “What makes you think that?” the Healer asked instead, just as Snape seemed to be finishing up his reading.

“Aren’t you supposed to tell me that I’m wrong or something?” Harry couldn’t help but ask. Ron and Hermione were being banished to various corners of the classroom, which meant… yes, there he went, sent up to sit right in front of Snape’s desk.

“No. That’s not how this works. I’m not here to offer platitudes. Truth be told, what I think—personally—of any of this is entirely irrelevant. I am here to help you to explore what _you_ think. So tell me, what makes you believes that Professor Snape might have been right to treat you as he did?”

Harry didn’t answer. Instead, he pushed himself up from the lab bench and made his way up to the front of the classroom, where he could still remember the hissed conversation between himself and Snape. He could feel the Healer trailing behind him.

 **“All this press attention seems to have inflated your already overlarge head, Potter,”** Snape was telling him as memory-Harry crushed his scarabs with just a little too much vigor. **“You might be laboring under the delusion that the entire Wizarding world is impressed with you, but I don’t care how many times your picture appears in the papers. To me, Potter, you are nothing but a nasty little boy who considers the rules to be beneath him.”**

Harry kept his eyes trained on his memory-self’s hands, which trembled slightly as they dumped the crushed beetles into the cauldron. He remembered that feeling of impotent rage, the same he’d felt so many times when the Dursleys had berated him, when Marge had insulted his parents and all but implied he should have been drowned at birth.

But now, stepping back out of the emotions there, he felt again that same shame. Because he _had_ broken the rules. And Snape—Snape wasn’t unreasonable when it came to rules, as it turned out. The opposite, in fact. And now, standing here, watching himself take this dressing-down again, he could see Snape’s side of it too, vindictive though the man had been. Harry had been caught out of bounds too many times to count—for good reasons, he’d believed at the time, but out of bounds nonetheless. He’d put his life in danger time and time again, and one year had put Snape toe-to-toe with a fully grown werewolf in the process.

Harry’s memory-self proceeded to chop the ginger root before him as Snape continued his monologue.

**“So I give you fair warning, Potter _,_ pint-sized celebrity or not—if I catch you breaking into my office one more time—”**

**“I haven’t been anywhere near your office!”** memory-Harry broke in, glaring defiantly up at Snape.

**“Don’t lie to me. Boomslang skin. Gillyweed. Both come from my private stores, and I know who stole them.”**

The pair of them locked eyes for a moment, both of them glaring ferociously, as if this little staring contest might have some significant meaning.

 **“I don’t know what you’re talking about,”** memory-Harry declared coolly after a few moments.

Snape leaned in closer, lips curling up to reveal his crooked teeth as he hissed, **“You were out of bed on the night my office was broken into! I know it, Potter! Mad-Eye Moody might have joined your fan club, but I will not tolerate your behavior! One more nighttime stroll into my office, Potter, and you will pay!”**

Harry watched, once again awash in a mix of feelings—triumph? guilt? discomfort?—as his memory-self, unfazed, turned back to his ginger roots and replied, **“Right. I’ll bear that in mind if I ever get the urge to go in there.”**

Snape’s hand disappeared into his robes, and now Harry saw himself flinch back from what he had expected at the time to be a particularly nasty curse. Instead, the Potion Master’s hand reemerged with a now-familiar crystal vial. **“Do you know what this is, Potter?”**

 **“No** ,” his memory-self answered.

 _Too well_ , Harry thought, as he felt himself tugged toward that other bitter memory, the one where all of his worst fears about that tiny clear bottle had come true.

 **“It is Veritaserum—a Truth Potion so powerful that three drops would have you spilling your innermost secrets for this entire class to hear. Now, the use of this potion is controlled by very strict Ministry guidelines. But unless you watch your step, you might just find that my hand _slips_** _—“_ a little shake of the bottle here—” **right over your evening pumpkin juice. And then, Potter… then we’ll find out whether you’ve been in my office or not.”**

“How did you feel, Harry, when your professor threatened you with that—the use of an illegal truth serum?” The Mind Healer sounded slightly less neutral this time when she posed her question. Harry thought he caught a hint of disgust buried under her otherwise even tone. 

“Terrified. I was protecting a lot of secrets. Not all of them my own, either.”

“You feared the Professor would really do as he said.”

“Well, yeah! Snape….” Here, Harry paused, the words tangling within himself. This Snape—the vicious, heartless bastard before him? He would have done it in a heartbeat if he could’ve gotten away with it. He would have loved nothing more than to humiliate Harry further, as if reading that article aloud wasn’t enough.

But the Snape who’d taken him in? The one who’d seen to his needs, who’d arranged for Harry to make up with his godfather, a man he personally despised? The Snape who’d sat up with Harry and comforted him during a nightmare and never, not once, used the memory of that weakness to shame Harry? The man who’d been so appalled at learning that Harry had believed he would burn Harry’s only pictures of his dead parents? The man who’d gone to great lengths to ensure that Harry would never have to worry again about losing that most precious of his belongings?

Had this been another empty threat, then, fueled by bitter anger and misunderstanding? Worse, a grain of truth? Because Hermione had stolen Boomslang skin, hadn’t she, with the help of Ron and Harry….

“Then, I thought he would dose me,” Harry amended.

A knock at the back of the classroom interrupted Harry.

“Enter,” memory-Snape commanded, straightening up and away from Harry, and Karkaroff entered—and there the memory bled away just as Harry felt himself reemerging from the Pensieve.

Harry blinked furiously as the Healer’s office came back into view.

“Hold still, Harry,” the Healer commanded.

Harry watched from the corner of his eye as the witch drew the silver strands of his memory out of the Pensieve and began approaching him, her wand held aloft in front of her.

“May I restore your memory?” she asked.

Harry nodded, and she touched her wand to his temple, where he felt those same silver strands reabsorb into him, drawn as if by magnetism. A few images of the scene flashed before his eyes, a few sounds and sensory details—and then it seemed it settled back into its proper place.

“Quite the scene you chose,” the Healer remarked.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed faintly, collapsing back onto the settee.

“Quite the illustration of the unresolved nature of your bond with Professor Snape.”

Harry nodded.

“Not to mention your own insecurities—”

“What?”

“About worthiness, especially in his eyes. And that is not even mentioning trust issues—I am surprised, quite frankly, that you did not linger more on the visitor at the end there. Karkaroff, am I correct? The former Death Eater they found dead not long ago?”

Panic started to take root in Harry’s chest. “How do you know that—”

“Professor Snape mentioned it in his—really, it’s more of a dossier. He felt it prudent to be forthright about his connections to the Death Eaters, and his current role as a spy—”

“Oh God. Why would he say that? I mean, sorry, no offense, but it’s kind of—well, dangerous, that you know that, and I can’t imagine what the hell he was thinking—”

“Harry. _Harry_. It’s quite all right.”

Harry froze as the Healer sat next to him, laying a quelling hand on his forearm.

“There are powerful wards on this place—Hippocratic Wards, named after an ancient wizard. You’ve heard of him?”

Harry nodded dumbly. “Didn’t know he was a wizard.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” the Healer told him gently, “given your upbringing. Well, Hippocrates founded the principles later used to create the wards. In fact, they are a predecessor of the Fidelius spell. All Healers here take an Oath—a magical Oath—that keys them into the wards here, binding us to be unable to speak of, or even clearly remember, what we have discussed here with patients off the premises of St. Mungo’s and outside of their direct presence. They also help with reinforcing our memories of who you are and the details of your case when you are here… but that is beside the point. What I mean to say, Harry, is that it is perfectly safe for even your most dangerous secrets to be spoken of here.”

Harry wanted to believe her, but it was hard to simply take her at her word.

“Professor Snape—does he strike you as the kind of man given to taking unnecessary risks?”

“No,” Harry answered, and he felt a little better as he did. Snape would never risk everything for a little therapy session. If he thought the wards were sufficient here… well, they must be. Though he didn’t like to put his faith in wards, especially with his family history.

“I understand it might make you uncomfortable to rely on ancient, intangible magic,” the Healer sympathized, withdrawing her hand at last. “But perhaps you could discuss it with Professor Snape. I’m certain he can put you at ease far better than I could. And hopefully by our next session, you will feel more confident in the magic in place here. If, that is, you are willing to come back?”

Pretty slick way to end a session, Harry thought—but with a touch of admiration. The Healer was strangely familiar already, as if he’d known her for a lot longer than an hour. And even though she’d left him mired in more questions than answers, Harry felt better, somehow, being able to name the conflicting emotions he felt, and to understand where they came from.

Though he bet Snape would be peeved that they hadn’t once discussed the Dursleys.

He had a feeling they would, though. Eventually. And though he wasn’t enthusiastic about that, it didn’t seem as ludicrous as it once had. He would give it a try, at least.

“Yeah,” he mumbled.

“Good. Come, let’s find Professor Snape and confirm your next appointment….”

Snape was out in the reception area, the book he’d brought from the house splayed open on one of his knees. He glanced up at their approach, an eyebrow raised. “Finished, then?”

“For today,” the Healer affirmed. “I believe we’re scheduled a week out, but I thought it might not hurt to take advantage of the summer and settle a few more appointments as well.”

Snape stood. “Agreed. There were a few things I’d hoped to discuss with you as well.”

“Step back in the office, then….”

“I’ll return shortly, Harry,” Snape promised with hardly a second glance spared for him.

“Shortly” turned out to mean “half an hour”, Harry found. At first he tried to amuse himself by reading some of the magazines left out on the coffee table. Unfortunately, the only thing he found that was even a decent read was an outdated issue of something called _The Quibbler_ —which was a bit bizarre, but entertaining, and much less drivel-filled than the copy of _Witch Weekly_ or the _Daily Prophet_. A number of the pages had, alas, been torn out, so Harry was unable to finish the article on the rare and elusive Frumious Bandersnatch.

And after that Harry’s overwrought mind began to take him in all sorts of unpleasant directions. Namely, what were they discussing? Was the Healer giving Snape a play-by-play of everything he’d said? Was Snape giving _his_ version of events, detailing how awful Harry had been up until that year and justifying his accusations and threats?

By the time Snape finally emerged, Harry was pacing back and forth restlessly, hands locked tightly behind his back, his stomach compressed into a tight, uncomfortable mass. The Professor was still in deep discussion, it seemed, with the Healer, his brow furrowed just slightly—but he returned his attention to Harry after just a few steps, and his expression smoothed.

“Are you ready to go?”

Harry tried to discern whether the man was angry at him or not. There was nothing in those words, not a wrinkle on his face now. And that meant nothing. So maybe he was irate that Harry had shared such an awful memory and made him look bad, but needed to wait until they were back at the house to do so.

“Is everything all right?” Snape added, and now concern broke through as he strode forward, his inspection far more intense. “You look paler. Are you feeling ill?”

Harry shook his head mutely.

“Harry and I explored some intense topics,” the Healer offered.

Snape seemed genuinely surprised by this. So maybe he hadn’t demanded a recap. “Ah. That is… good, I suppose. Do you need a moment, Harry?”

“No. Sorry. Um, thank you, Healer Angela.”

“You’re very welcome, Harry,” she replied warmly.

And with that they headed back to the public Floo.

XXXXX

The afternoon passed quietly. Harry worked on summer assignments, and Snape kept to himself in the lab, promising that they would resume lessons the following day.

Harry desperately wanted to ask Snape what he’d talked to the Healer about, but his courage seemed to fail him. The doubts and specter of guild raised during his appointment continued to haunt him well into the evening, causing him to feel just as ill-at-ease as he’d been during his first days in Snape’s home.

His jumpiness was so bad that he actually leapt guiltily to his feet when Snape emerged in the sitting room from the cellar.

Snape raised a quizzical brow at him. “Guilty conscience?”

“No, sir,” Harry stammered, and then winced at how that sounded. “I was just thinking of… I, um….”

Snape appraised him with his immutable black gaze for a moment before angling himself away from Harry toward the kitchen, lifting the weight of his scrutiny from Harry’s shoulders. “Would you mind helping set the table?”

Harry thrust his textbook down and was about to hurry into the kitchen to comply before he managed to quell the impulse. _Not at the Dursleys_. And in slowing down that little bit, he was able to truly puzzle over this new development. “Of course, but… um… not to sound ungrateful—”

“You sound moronic, actually, when you ‘um’ your way through a conversation,” Snape interrupted, his tone a strange mixture of teasing and lecturing. “But do continue.”

Harry flushed at the comment. “I thought that you didn’t want me doing chores. Not that I won’t, of course. I’d be happy to. I could make dinner, too—I used to do it all the time—”

“Merciful Merlin, what has gotten into you? Did you find the liquor cabinet this afternoon? I let the wards expire because I thought, surely the boy does not have a death wish, he’ll know to keep well away….”

“I just want to help!” Harry snapped. “And suddenly you’re letting me, and I just wanted to know why, since you about blew a gasket just the other day when I wanted to dust.”

For a fleeting moment Harry could have sworn he saw guilt flash in Snape’s eyes. “You are welcome to assist with dinner. _Assist_ ,” Snape reiterated carefully. “And I have changed my stance because I was informed that I was… misguided in my child-rearing philosophies.”

“In your _what_?” Harry choked.

“You object to the term?”

Harry sputtered uselessly.

“What should I call you instead?” Snape inquired innocently. “Whelp? Potter-spawn? And yes, I am _rearing_ you for the time being, because lord knows what would become of you if you were left to your own devices.”

For the first time, Harry wondered if Snape genuinely was this unflappable, or if this banter was his way of covering up his own insecurities. If so, the mechanism was flawless. “Fine, what changed?”

“It was brought to my attention that excluding you from unpleasant household tasks might foster the impression that you are a guest here.”

“But I am, aren’t I? I—”

“You are my ward. Meaning you are an equal member of the household, and therefore can be saddled with such mundane chores as setting the table. So get to it. And then you can come dice vegetables for me.”

Harry snorted. “I must have been a very important member of the Dursley household,” he muttered as he followed Snape into the kitchen to retrieve the dinnerware.

He was not prepared for Snape to pause and simply stare at him. And not with irritation, or admonition, or even expectation, either. There was just… attention, all trace of mocking gone. “Oh?” he inquired simply.

“Never mind,” Harry mumbled.

And Snape gave him a curt nod that said they would drop the matter, no questions asked.

XXXXX

Harry set the table, and spent a pleasant hour or so helping Snape to prepare stir-fry for the evening meal. There wasn’t much conversation beyond what was needed to coordinate their efforts, but that was bliss for Harry. For once his efforts and presence were appreciated. Like in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place, the atmosphere between himself and Snape seemed to have evolved beyond a comfortable détente into something more, something approaching—dare he say warmth?

It seemed that, as long as they weren’t conversing, Harry and Snape got along famously.

That period of relative ease could not last indefinitely, however much Harry wished it would.

The peace broke shortly after the two of them had settled at the table with their plates. Snape seemed to be a master of reinstating tension, so naturally it was his unwarranted question that shattered the easy mood of the evening.

“You were rather keyed up earlier,” he observed tactlessly. “Nervous, I would say. Am I right in guessing that it has to do with something that came up during your appointment?” He speared a sautéed carrot and popped it into his mouth as casually as if he’d simply announced that the weather called for rain the next day.

Harry said nothing, foolishly believing that Snape would drop it.

“And I didn’t detect any brandy on your breath—”

“I didn’t get into your liquor! I don’t even know where you keep it!”

“And if you’re smart,” Snape informed him, gesticulating with his fork, “you’ll keep it that way. Still, the mystery remains as to what has turned your babbling even more brainless than usual.”

Harry waited—for the speculations, which he could ignore, or the outright questions, which he could bat away. But Snape let the statement hang there as he worked his way through his meal bite by bite.

And damn it if Snape didn’t somehow know how to maneuver him. “She asked to view a memory, and the one I chose was awful, and it’s just got me on edge, okay?” Harry blurted out.

To which Snape said… nothing.

 _Good_ , Harry thought, and planned to let the conversation drop there.

Except he couldn’t. The unspoken answer to Snape’s question, Snape’s refusal to simply declare the matter closed, or move on to some other topic—it itched. Unbearably. Harry opened his mouth a few times to change the topic himself, but found it was impossible.

Finally, he couldn’t stand it anymore. “I showed her that day in your class—when you read that awful article about how Hermione was my girlfriend, and how she was too ugly or something to get with Krum on her own, so she had to be using a love potion, and then you pulled me aside and accused me of stealing and threatened me with Veritaserum, which was really fucking unprofessional, if you ask me.”

“Agreed.” Snape laid his fork down, his expression suddenly grave. “Harry—”

“I watched it back, okay? So you don’t have to tell me… we were being rude little prats in your class, and no, it wasn’t right of you to read that damned article, but we weren’t exactly innocent or anything. And even when you threatened me… I get that you were just really angry, and that it was a huge coincidence that I was out of bed at that time—and I _was_ breaking the rules, like you said. And I know you wouldn’t have really used truth serum on me.”

“No. But I never should have—”

“I know,” Harry cut him off as he felt that same sense of panic rising in him again. “I don’t need you to apologize. I mean, I was still angry about it, but not… it’s just a bad memory now.”

“It would be reasonable for you to be angry with me,” Snape offered cautiously. “Healthy, I might even say. But you have not been. You’ve been nervous instead.”

Harry shoved his plate away, all traces of appetite gone. “It’s just….” What? Why did he need to say this now? Why did he feel the need to bring up bad memories and past wrongs? Snape wasn’t riding him, wasn’t demanding that he explain himself. “We did steal from you. Second year. Boomslang skin. Ron and I set off that firework while Hermione grabbed the skin from your storeroom. And then Dobby stole the Gillyweed—”

“You _what_ ,” Snape hissed in a deadly cold voice, even as his whole body seemed to swell with wrath. “I _knew it_. You little cretins—do you have _any_ idea of how dangerous that little stunt was? Of what you risked, had an improper brew contaminated anyone? Have you the _faintest_ clue of what the introduction of an _incendiary device_ into a draught of unknown quality brewed by some addle-headed pre-pubescent blockhead might have caused? And what in Merlin’s name did you and your insufferable friends need with Boomslang skin?”

Harry shrank back. “We—for the Polyjuice—”

“Polyjuice!” Snape spat out. His white-knuckled grip on his fork was enough to bend the utensil, which he discarded with a clatter off to the side of his plate. Harry could barely stand to meet the man’s blazing eyes, even if he could no longer feel any of the muscles in his body. “You attempted _Polyjuice_? In your second year? Have you any idea of how illegal, not to mention incredibly foolish….” For once, Snape seemed to be at a loss for words—that, or he was grinding his teeth so hard that he could no longer rant. “Merlin, I thought you stupid, Potter, but this—this is beyond the pale. This far surpasses any suspicion I might have had of your reckless disregard for the rules. And this I say _after_ you stole and attempted to pilot an illegal modified Muggle vehicle to the school, only to crash it into Hogwarts property—”

“I know,” Harry broke in, voice hoarse with pleading. This was not what he wanted. He’d wanted to prove to Snape somehow that he understood how idiotic he’d been. He’d wanted to beg for absolution, so the knowledge of his recklessness wouldn’t hang over him like a dark cloud that Snape might peer into one day and recall why he despised Harry Bloody Potter. But it seemed like he would never get a chance to apologize—or that an apology wouldn’t make much difference after all.

“You know,” Snape parroted back, tone edged with sardonic mocking.

“You were right when you accused me of stealing. And th-thinking myself above the rules.” Damn it, where were these tears coming from? “I just meant to say that I’m sorry, and… and that I’ll try to be better.”

The silence between them grew palpably more uncomfortable in the seconds that followed, and after struggling valiantly to batter his emotions back down, Harry whispered, “May I be excused, sir?” And stood, because he was certain that Snape was just about sick of him by then.

“No,” Snape fired back immediately. “Sit back down.”

Harry did and waited again. Snape seemed to be breathing deeply, his eyes trained on the ceiling behind Harry. Harry kept his gaze on his laced knuckles in front of him.

“Why did you feel the need to brew a Polyjuice Potion?” Snape’s words were terse, but far less hostile than previously.

“We thought Malfoy was the Heir of Slytherin. And we needed a way to—to check. So Ron and I impersonated Crabbe and Goyle—”

“An offense worthy of two years in Azkaban, but do continue.”

Harry could feel the blood draining from his face. “We didn’t know—”

“Continue, Potter.”

“Hermione….”

Snape’s lip curled in a particularly disdainful sneer, even though he continued to examine whatever it was that had had caught his attention on the kitchen ceiling. “Let me venture a guess. The illustrious Miss Granger had not botched an attempt to become an Animagus, as we previously assumed, but instead mistook cat hair for the requisite human specimen. Is that about right?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry affirmed faintly.

“And so you nobly enacted your harebrained charade, risking life and limb”—Snape’s eyes slid back to Harry, as if he knew Harry had been about to open his mouth to object—“oh, yes, Potter, I could tell you tales of Polyjuice gone wrong to curdle your stomach. The strict control of potions is not merely a useless Ministry pastime, I assure you. Had your Miss Granger been any less competent, you might have found your bones rearranged, fused, vanished—and not necessarily in a way that would accommodate all of your organs. Or better, you might have been left in the transient state, little better than primordial ooze—which is not much of a downgrade for you intellectually, I understand—”

“We had to know!” Harry shouted. “People were being petrified, and there were messages in blood, and no one seemed to be doing a damned thing—”

“So of course it fell to you to _chase down a bloody basilisk_!” Snape seethed. “Rather than leave it to responsible adults, you allowed your incredible hubris to guide you to confront an ancient beast and the Dark Lord’s wraith without once consulting any of the full-grown witches and wizards—”

“When we told McGonagall about the Stone, she told us it was none of our business! She told us it was fine, when Quirrell was going after the Stone that night—”

Snape stood up suddenly and leaned over the table so that his face loomed just inches from Harry’s. “Tell me what would have happened,” he demanded in a deadly-soft voice, “had you remained in your bed that night. Tell me how Quirrell would have gotten the Stone.”

“He made it past all the traps! He made it to the mirror—”

“Where only one with no intention of using the Stone could retrieve it. What then, Potter?”

Harry opened his mouth, only to snap it shut immediately.

“I know it is hard to believe, given the accolades the Headmaster heaped on you and your friends for your _cleverness_ and _bravery_ and _resourcefulness_ , but your presence enabled the Dark Lord to get that much closer to immortality. Believe me when I say congratulating you was far from my mind when the Headmaster recounted to me how he had scraped your lifeless body from the floor of that chamber.”

Harry could not help but shudder as those words sank in. Instinctively, he wrapped his arms around himself as the truth of the matter set in. “Oh God.”

“Indeed. Time after time your disregard for any semblance of boundaries has put your life—and the lives of others—at risk. Time after time, Potter.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry repeated listlessly. He’d been sorry before—mostly because he’d given Snape reason to dislike him in the past. But this, this was so much worse. Yes, he’d felt guilty about the theft, and even some of the risks he’d taken, but at least before he’d thought they’d been for a good cause. But now, learning that as far back as his first year he’d been screwing things up…. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. I was so stupid.”

The self-loathing he felt then was overwhelming. What he’d felt before seeing how he’d interacted with Snape was nothing in comparison to the weight that bore down on him now. Potions interactions… how had that never crossed his mind? After four years of class, how had he not even thought of it in retrospect? What if Hermione’s accident had been worse? What if they’d maimed her, or killed her? Yes, Hermione was clever, cleverest witch in their year by far, but that didn’t mean she was immune to mistakes.

And all the other students that had been in that classroom. Yes, they’d needed antidotes for the Swelling Solution—but what if it had been worse, like Snape had said? What if someone had really messed up their potion and turned it into poison, or something corrosive, or worse?

“Which you said at the outset of this conversation.”

Harry’s head snapped up at his Professor’s softly, abruptly strained words. “Sir?”

“The preface to this conversation was your apology,” Snape clarified, settling heavily back into his chair. He rubbed at his eyes with the thumb and forefinger of one hand, his brow furrowing as he did so. “Meaning you realize the errors made, and my ranting was wholly unnecessary. Which begs the question: why bring the topic up?” When Harry didn’t speak, Snape prompted, “I take it something this afternoon inspired this confession?”

Harry hugged himself tighter as shifted his gaze back to his lap. “That day in class… you accused me of stealing. And I hadn’t then. But we’d taken the Boomslang and Bicorn horn before. And it never bothered me before, you not knowing about that. But now….” Harry managed to pull in a shuddery breath. “I… I just needed you to know….”

“That in the past you’ve made idiotic decisions driven the martyr complex instilled in you by our esteemed headmaster? Yes, I am aware.” Harry pressed back away from Snape when he stood and rounded the table, not sure what to expect. The man sounded more controlled, but still…. “Harry.”

Reluctantly, Harry lifted his eyes to find Snape’s expression troubled rather than irked. “Sir?”

“What brought this on?”

When Harry shrugged, Snape crouched down, steadying himself against the table, and reached out to catch Harry’s chin.

Holding his head in place for scrutiny, Snape pressed, “Why did you feel compelled to confess to me about past wrongs that likely never would have come to light?”

“I don’t know,” Harry pleaded. “It just seemed… important.” To his horror, he could feel tears prickling in his eyes. He furiously blinked them away as he tried to clamp down on the confusing tide of emotion that was rising within him. “You were right about me when you called me a… a nasty little boy who thinks the rules are beneath him—”

Snape’s grip tightened suddenly, and painfully. “I was not.”

“But—”

“No,” Snape cut him off swiftly and harshly. “And you well know it. You have just finished explaining to me that your actions were motivated by your need to take care of existential threats to yourself and your friends. And while your hero complex is _not_ an excuse for your reckless behavior, it is leagues away from breaking the rules simply for the pleasure of it. I want no confusion on that point.”

“I have, though,” Harry cried. “Third year, I went into Hogsmeade, and I lied about it when you caught me—”

Snape’s grip did not lessen. “My, my, the cardinal sin of wanting to join your friends on a school-sanctioned trip. What should we do with you? The Dementor’s Kiss, you think?”

“We thought a murderer was on the loose—”

“Yes, it was foolish! Yes, had I known at the time I would have assigned a month’s worth of detentions and complained to the Headmaster! But that was two years ago, Harry, and you speak of it now as if… well, I cannot quite describe it. As a guilt-stricken murderer presenting evidence against himself. And though I am… _less than pleased_ … to hear about your numbskull endeavors your second year—mostly because of the hours I wasted arguing my apparently valid case to Albus to no avail—this changes very little. You, however, seem convinced otherwise.”

“You know the truth about me now,” Harry whispered, trying to pull away from Snape’s grip. Snape let him, shifting back a bit as if to give Harry more space. “You know you were right—”

“I know I was wrong in far more significant ways. Admittedly, it is… good… that you are able to clear the air about these things, so to speak. Better, I should think, to bring them to light than simply bury them. But it does not seem to have been a cathartic experience. Rather, you seem more distraught now.”

Harry chanced a glance up at Snape. There was no trace of the rage from earlier, strangely. His focus seemed to be consumed by Harry—a less than comfortable feeling. “Don’t you… aren’t you mad?”

Snape frowned in consternation before pushing himself back to his feet and peering down at Harry. “Annoyed, yes. Mad… it was three years ago. And I understand far better now why you felt driven to do it. I would wager I can even empathize with your flight from London.” Snape braced a hand flat against the table, his index finger beginning to tap out a light tattoo against the surface. “You’re worried about my regard?” he inquired, testing the words out.

“Not… it’s just, it makes sense that now that you know….”

“Merlin, you _are_ worried, aren’t you? Harry, I don’t think less of you. If anything, you’ve impressed me with this—though I worry this is less courage and more self-punishment.”

“What?”

“You subconsciously believe you don’t deserve support, ergo you engage in what you believe to be self-sabotage by confessing to past sins. Though Merlin knows I’m unqualified to attempt to make sense of your psychological state.” Snape sighed and shifted again to fold his arms over his chest.

“It never even bothered me before. That’s why… I just, I heard you say it in my memory, and before I’d just—I don’t know. Dismiss it. I didn’t care. And I hate that I didn’t care.”

“Just as previously I would not have thought twice about how I spoke to you in my class. Whereas now….” Snape’s gaze drifted away again as he angled himself toward the kitchen door. “I wonder how I can ever expect you to overlook my behavior.”

“I told you I forgive you,” Harry insisted. There was a stark note in Snape’s tone that Harry couldn’t quite place but didn’t at all care for. “I meant it. What you’ve done since means way more.”

Snape scoffed derisively, his suddenly sharp gaze swinging back to needle Harry. “You can forgive me, an adult—a professional, no less, charged with your wellbeing—but you cannot forgive yourself, a misguided child doing his best to protect the only semblance of family he ever knew?”

Harry shrugged at the table and the cold remains of his dinner. “I’m angrier at myself.”

“I know the struggle too well.” Snape drew a deep, audible breath. “Come here.”

Harry obeyed, trying hard not to tremble. He felt so fragile, and he did not like the thought of getting close to Snape just now, even if the man was no longer yelling and spitting insults.

To Harry’s shock, Snape seized him roughly as soon as Harry got within range and pulled him in close. For several long seconds Harry stood there, stiff against Snape’s side, trying to figure out what Snape was about to do—until he realized that it was a one-armed embrace, and that the strong arm banded around his back felt a hell of a lot like forgiveness. And then, very carefully, Harry laid his forehead against Snape’s shoulder and struggled once again to get a hold of his emotions.

“You will read a full chapter on the reversal of Polyjuice-related mishaps between tonight and tomorrow evening,” Snape told him in a low, nearly-gentle voice. “And you will count yourself lucky I am not assigning an essay on the topic.”

Harry could not have described just then how perfectly those words relieved the weight that had settled in his stomach since that afternoon. He did not believe a simple reassurance from Snape would have had the same effect. “Okay,” he agreed meekly.

“And you will bring this up with Healer Angela in your next session. Yes?”

“Yeah.”

Snape’s arm contracted tightly for a moment, and then he was drawing back, his eyes critical once more. “Our dinner has gone cold.”

“Oh.” Harry turned back to the table, beyond grateful for the concrete distraction. “Here, I can reheat it in the pan—”

“Potter, are you a wizard or not?”

In spite of himself, Harry found himself grinning at Snape’s exasperated query. “We didn’t get to do Defense today, you know,” he pointed out. He winced internally at the small quaver that remained in his voice.

Snape didn’t remark on it though. “Pity. You’ll simply have to wait another two days, won’t you?”

“What? No, you said we’d switch off. We did Potions the other day, so now it’s Defense.”

“Whatever gave you the impression that a Slytherin would keep his word?” Snape inquired smoothly, settling back into his seat.

“Whatever gave _you_ the impression that a Gryffindor won’t complain until he gets what he thinks is fair?” Harry countered, and felt a small spark of warmth when Snape’s lips curved up in the smallest of amused smirks.

“A point. I suppose the only sensible thing to do is to capitulate in order to spare myself.” Snape drew his wand and waved it over their plates. “Defense, then, on the condition that you complete your reading.”

“Sure,” Harry agreed readily. How long could a single chapter be?

One hundred and three pages, as it turned out.

“It’s practically a book!” he complained later, after Snape had dumped the tome before him on the cleared dinner table.

“It _is_ a book, Potter—as indicated by the cover bounding a number of pages filled with what the more intelligent amongst us call words.”

“No, I mean the chapter—it’s really long—”

“It’s Polyjuice. It’s a complicated, volatile, highly subjective brew that requires precision with little room for error. I am, in fact, in possession of a tome of over five hundred pages dedicated to Polyjuice-related correction alone—perhaps you would prefer to read that?”

“No,” Harry replied swiftly, “this is fine.”

Gruesomely fascinating would have been a better description. The text was tiny and densely-packed, but accompanied by vivid illustrations of various accidents related to missed steps, omitted or substituted ingredients, and other errors in preparation. Harry found himself unable to look away, even as his gut twisted uncomfortably at the thought of any of these things happening to himself or his friends. He leafed through a few more pages as Snape watched him.

“Okay, this is horrible… but why don’t you make us read something like this? You know, like a precautionary tale?”

Snape’s lip curled in a faint sneer. “The Headmaster believes it would be traumatizing and propagate ‘a fear-driven learning environment’.”

“No offense, but you already do a pretty good job of creating a, uh, ‘fear-driven learning environment’. And maybe we need to be traumatized.”

Snape snorted. “Well, you, at least, will be. Pay careful attention, because I _will_ be quizzing you later to confirm your reading comprehension.” He flicked a wand back toward the tea set that had sat out on the counter for several weeks now, causing steam to pour out the kettle’s spout. Another flick had the tray levitating in the air. “Come. You’d might as well be comfortable and plied with tea and biscuits while you serve your token punishment.”

Harry cast a sly glance at the Professor. “Should you be telling me it’s a token punishment? And if it is, couldn’t I just look at the pictures?”

“Not on your life.” Snape took him by the shoulder and gave him a little nudge out of his dining chair. “And watch yourself. I can still assign an essay.”

“Yes, Professor.”

“Two essays, even,” Snape mused threateningly.

“I mean yes, Severus.”

Harry’s heart leapt a bit when Snape’s hand tightened on his shoulder in response to that, and lingered for just a moment before dropping away as Snape led the way into the sitting room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's hoping that you're all doing well amidst the craziness of this pandemic! I am currently home recovering from surgery, so no promises about updates, but I will be doing my best to press along as I am able. As always, thank you all for your kind reviews and words of encouragement. Emotional chapters like this one always make me nervous (so many ways to go wrong!) but I hope I've done it justice without going overboard. 
> 
> Also, direct quotes are taken from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by J.K. Rowling and are bolded to distinguish them. 
> 
> Cheers! ~Mel


	23. Chapter Twenty-three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruising, a difficult conversation, and a well-executed broom stunt that Snape does not appreciate

“Hold still.”

“That was amazing—”

“Hold _still_ , Potter, or I will stun you.”

Harry obliged for a moment, closing his eyes lightly as Snape spread some sort of healing balm over the small cut beneath his eye. He felt Snape’s fingers on his jawline tilting his head further back, likely looking for more damage.

“I’m really fine,” he tried again.

Predictably, Snape loosed something like a snarl. “You were injured. I am treating you. There is nothing else to discuss.”

“What _was_ that spell, anyway? I feel like it spun me around a hundred times in like, five seconds. Will you teach it to me? Or does it have to be done nonverbally? Even if it does, I still want to learn—”

“Would you cease babbling for a moment and get your top off?” Snape interrupted.

Harry hesitated for just a second, some of the old nervousness rising in him, but he fought it down—easy to do when he still felt like he was bubbling over with excitement from the mock-duel he and Snape had staged. He shucked his t-shirt so that Snape could see his chest was unbruised (as he’d insisted too many times to count now). Or at least, not significantly bruised.

“And you were just so… I mean, I’ve never seen anyone cast so fast. You were holding back with Lockhart second year, weren’t you? You could have knocked that prick on his arse without looking at him—”

“Still, Potter,” Snape commanded, turning him bodily by his shoulders to face the end of the sofa. “Merlin, I just wiped the floor with you. You’re supposed to be subdued. Embarrassed.”

Harry snorted. “You’re an awesome duelist and you’re going to teach me Defense. Why the hell would I be upset? How long did it take you to get the hang of nonverbal spells, by the way? Because I know it’ll probably take a long time, but it would be dead useful not to have to incant—”

Harry found his head, which he’d automatically turned to face Snape, shoved a bit roughly back forward.

“I’m about to demonstrate a most useful jinx involving the tongue and the roof of the mouth. Now stay _still_ and I can finish this.”

“I’m fine! It’s just a few bruises—”

“You told me you weren’t bruised,” Snape said. His voice had dropped to that deadly-quiet tone that made Harry’s gut clench.

“Badly,” Harry said. “I said I wasn’t bruised badly. They barely hurt.”

“What was our agreement?”

Harry hated how soft and controlled and patient Snape sounded. Somehow, it was worse than if Snape had raised his voice or shown his irritation, though Harry had no idea why that should be the case.

“Come to you with any injury,” Harry mumbled, and hissed as the cold salve met his lower back.

“Indeed. And if you are going to lie to me—”

“I didn’t,” Harry started, and heard Snape draw breath behind, likely to begin an epic-length lecture. “Mean to,” he added hastily. “I didn’t mean to. I just… I can put up with it, you know. It’ll heal on its own. I don’t need to be coddled.”

“Do I seem like the coddling type, Mr. Potter?”

Cold salve on a new spot now. Harry couldn’t deny that it felt good; it siphoned even the residual ache from the places where his body had connected with rocks and roots and the ground in general. Maybe he would suggest Snape choose an open field for their next location, instead of Apparating them to some random part of some unknown forest.

“No, but—”

“No. I do not coddle. And this—shoring up and saying nothing—is a tendency that you will have to unlearn, however difficult it is for you. Once you have overcome your basic inability to seek help, then we can work on using discernment. For now, you will come to me for everything.”

Harry knew he wouldn’t—but he decided that he’d better make an effort at telling Snape about some of the things he normally wouldn’t bother with. After all, Snape wasn’t Vernon or Petunia. Even if he did snipe at Harry about clumsiness or avoidable idiocy, it wouldn’t be anything like his relatives. At most it would be a bit of grumbling and a few dark looks as his professor fixed him up.

“Now,” Snape announced, “if you are honest with me, I’ll let you apply your own salve. If not… well, you cannot say you did not bring it on yourself.”

“Huh?” Harry mumbled, glancing back over his shoulder.

“Is there any bruising below your waist?”

Harry felt the hot prickle of a blush along his hairline. “No—”

“Think very, very carefully before you answer,” Snape cautioned him, with a meaningful look that had Harry turning his head away again.

“A little, I guess.” Harry held himself stiffly. It wasn’t about humiliation, he knew, but Snape could be so unreasonable about some things, and wouldn’t it be just like him to insist on pulling Harry’s trousers down to rub the balm in himself, as punishment for Harry’s lack of cooperation? Harry could already hear the man’s impatience. _It’s just skin, Potter_. Still, he supposed there was no harm in asking. “Can I… _may_ I take care of it myself? On my own?”

“Yes.”

Harry sagged a bit in relief. He was pretty sure instinct would have overridden any common sense if Snape had said no, and then there would have been a shouting match to rival the ones he’d been a part of when Snape had first brought him here.

“But if you _ever_ lie to me again about injuries, especially when I ask you directly, I promise you will find yourself in a much less comfortable position. Are we understood?”

“Next time I’ll just get my shield off—hey!” Snape had cuffed him—lightly—in the back of the head. And for some stupid reason, Harry couldn’t stop himself from smiling just a tiny bit. “Yeah, understood.”

“Good. Go get that taken care of and report back here for a discussion of theory.”

Harry accepted the open jar of salve from Snape, and glanced up at the man slyly. “You know, we could just have another duel….”

“I think not.” Harry felt the sofa shift as Snape got to his feet and brushed out his jumper. “You could do with some theory work—particularly, the theory of how to get a shield off to block a curse, or barring that, how to _step out of the way_.”

“I was trying to do it without incanting—”

“Which you’ve never done before. Imbecile. I didn’t intend for that curse to hit you full on.”

Harry was glad the man’s grimness since the end their mock duel had dissolved—though he could still sense some measure of dourness lingering. Sure, that curse had spun him hard, and sure, he’d knocked into that tree and tumbled over the ground with some force, but it was no different than the rough-and-tumble injuries you got during quidditch. Still, Snape seemed overly sensitized to any injuries Harry acquired—Harry could still see the man’s thin lips and flared nostrils from when he’d treated the small burn Harry had acquired when his pinky had accidentally brushed against a hot cauldron.

Snape hadn’t said anything, though—no lecture, no snide remarks, nothing of the sort. Just a careful examination followed by the application of a burn salve, all while Snape looked as though he were sucking on a lemon. Harry had tried then, too, to tell him that it was nothing, but that had just darkened the man’s expression.

Snape always seemed better after Harry had been seen to, though. Like now.

“I just wanted to try it out,” Harry defended himself, tugging his shirt back down a bit. “I guess I need to practice it a bit first—”

“Yes, I would have thought that was apparent. Suffice to say that I will not be overestimating your capabilities in the future.”

“But we can duel again, right? Please? I swear I’ll be more careful and give it my all. Please?”

Snape paused in his wand motions—Harry saw that he’d been summoning the tea service from the kitchen. “We shall see. Go take care of your bruising.”

Harry recognized that the impulse to push Snape further likely wasn’t a sound one, but he ignored that feeling, propelled by his lingering excitement. “Please? We can set up cushioning charms if you’re worried, and I’ll take whatever precautions you want. But I feel like I could learn so much—”

“Enough wheedling! Merlin and Morgana, you’re worse than your mother when you want something. We shall see—if you can grasp the concepts here, and if I’ve the time—”

“I’ll help you with anything you need,” Harry put in eagerly. “So you have time. And really, it didn’t take that long to pop out to wherever we were. I mean, the wards you set took a minute, but maybe you could teach me those too, and I could help set them? You said the Trace doesn’t work outside of residential areas, right?”

“I said that the Ministry does not bother _checking_ outside of populated areas.”

“Right. So you won’t even have to do as much work next time. Just boss me around and make sure I set everything up properly. Please?”

“Fine, I will not promise, but I will endeavor to arrange for a similar excursion in the future. _If_ you assist me in the lab when I request it.”

Harry grinned. Strange that such a bargain didn’t bother him in the least. “Wicked.” And then he felt the smile falter as his thoughts snagged on what Snape had just said. He knew the man would likely just brush him off again, but he had to ask. “What… what did my mother pester you about?”

Snape sighed and directed the tea service to the coffee table, then ran his free hand over his face. “Magic. Pureblood tradition. Wizarding customs. I will tell you about her, if you like, after our lesson.”

“Please,” Harry rasped before he could stop himself. “I mean, if you want to. You don’t have to.”

“You are far too agreeable,” Snape muttered, shaking his head. “Yes, I will tell you. It is the least I can do. Now go apply that—unless you prefer me to do it?”

“Going,” Harry said, tripping to his feet.

Before he turned toward the bathroom, Harry caught sight of Snape rolling his eyes.

XXXXX

Harry did not like the grimness that had returned to Snape’s expression by the time he returned to the sitting room. Their lesson had gone well, he’d thought. Theory, while not nearly as exciting as dueling, was still fairly interesting, and Snape was very knowledgeable when it came to Defense. He would have made a brilliant professor for the subject—provided he could keep his temper in check.

But now he’d promised to tell Harry about Lily, and it looked as if the thought of turning toward what Harry was certain was a painful past was enough to turn the man dour and distant. It was almost enough that Harry told the man to forget it.

Almost. 

He settled carefully on the sofa next to Snape, trying to find the right position for this. He tried leaning back a bit, then setting on the edge of his seat, then leaning forward on his knees.

“I met your mother before our Hogwarts years.”

That took Harry off guard.

Snape’s eyes were fixed on the hearth, but it seemed as though he were staring through the solid stone, at something far beyond. “I was the first to tell her she was a witch.”

Harry clung to every word as Snape detailed those early years of friendship, his voice soft and tinged with just the barest hint of wistfulness—how Lily had soaked up every tidbit of the wizarding world that he’d been able to share, how they’d dreamed together of their houses and their illustrious Hogwarts careers. How Lily would sneak him packages of biscuits and chocolate bars and call it payment for his knowledge, when they both knew it was kindness since Severus’ family never had much money to spare for such treats.

Snape told him about the pain of separation as they were sorted into different houses, and the strained friendship they carried on in spite of it. He told Harry about how brilliant his mother had been, how she excelled in Charms and Potions above all—the apple of her professors’ eyes, he told Harry, all the while carefully excising any mentions of himself or James.

Harry could well guess why. He knew their animosity probably had been a longstanding thing, one stretching back as far as their first year together. And Snape likely wanted to revisit that as much as Harry wanted to reminisce about his happy childhood tussles with Dudley.

Snape was a wealth of information on his mother, as it turned out. He knew her favorite foods, her career plans, the kind of music she listened to at home. He knew that her father had tried to drive the rabbits out of their garden, only for Lily’s accidental magic to turn them invisible—which had initially nearly driven the poor man into cardiac arrest. He recalled fondly how Lily had tried to bring her sister sweets from Hogsmeade her third year, only to make the mistake of bringing home some Acid Pops (herself never having tried them and underestimating how literal the name was). That had resulted in a trip to the Muggle emergency room, a round of Obliviations, and a parental conference with the Headmaster, who’d had to reassure the Evans that Petunia’s tongue was surely healing over as they spoke.

Harry knew he grinned like a lunatic the whole time Snape spoke, but he couldn’t help it. No one told him these things. Hearing these stories, it made Lily feel a little less distant, a little less abstract. He could imagine the kind of mother she would have been—like Molly Weasley in her doting, he guessed, and tenderness, and likely just as terrifying when in a temper, but with a dash of mischief thrown in, the kind of suave slyness that he saw in Snape sometimes. Likely that was where she’d picked it up.

Their tea went cold three times while they spoke, and the light pouring in through the still-murky window of the sitting room had turned a deep gold by the time Harry’s ceaseless questions and Snape’s supply of anecdotes had run dry. Harry expected Snape to grouchily order him off to relax while he made to prepare their dinner, as was his habit.

He didn’t move, though. The grimness had returned, and settled heavily over him like a shroud. Harry assumed the man was going to elaborate on what he had only hinted at—the moment when he and Lily had ceased to be friends. The moment that he had called her a “foul word” that he refused to repeat, the moment he had touched on and glossed over earlier.

But Harry was wrong.

“I know,” Snape began quietly, his eyes once again on the cold hearth, “that I told you that you were to remain here with me… that you could not stay elsewhere.” Snape seemed to swallow hard. “I… if you wish, I will arrange for you to stay at Grimmauld Place with your godfather and the Weasleys.”

It took Harry a good long moment to fully absorb what Snape was saying. “What do you mean? I… I told you, I’m good staying here. I mean, if you’ll have me still. But I thought….”

Snape’s somber gaze shifted to meet Harry’s. Harry did not like this, whatever it was. It made his gut twist in unpleasant ways. “You are most welcome here. I would… prefer you remain with me. You know this. But… I must….” Snape paused to draw a deep breath, his chest rising and falling with the force of it. “There is something I must share with you, about myself… about your parents. And if… if, afterwards, you no longer wish to stay here….”

Harry’s heart lurched as the implications of those words hit him. Whatever Snape wanted to tell him, it was bad. And Snape had been a Death Eater. God knew what the man had done during those days. Had he cursed Harry’s parents? Had he attacked Lily on Voldemort’s orders? Tried to poison them?

Did he really want to know?

“Much as I hate to concede… it was your godfather who raised the point that if you are staying with me, you have a right to know… certain things.” To Harry, it sounded as if those words were being raked out of some deep place within Snape. His gaze drifted away again, and now the slight creases of Snape’s expression deepened with what, to Harry, looked like pain. “You know I once served the Dark Lord.” A statement, not a question.

Harry dipped his head stiffly anyway. His body ached from the tension that had drawn him up at Snape’s words. He sat stiff, erect, feeling brittle, as if one wrong word would shatter him.

“You may not know that it was He who ordered me to take up my post at Hogwarts, to… to spy on the Headmaster.”

“You don’t have to tell me this,” Harry cut in. “It’s… I trust you, okay? I know… I know you’re not like that—”

“I do have to tell you, Harry. You need to know.” Snape closed his eyes lightly. “The Headmaster was conducting an interview at the Hog’s Head. You know of the place, I’m sure. One Sybil Trelawney, granddaughter of a famous Seer, who had applied for the Divination post. An old fraud, I thought, but at that time I was dogging the Headmaster’s every step like a young fool, searching for any tidbit of information I could pass to him. I did not expect… never, never would I have thought the woman capable of delivering a prophecy.” Snape’s voice had dropped to a strained hush by the end there, the volume low enough that it had Harry leaning in to catch his words. “Let alone a prophecy that would affect someone I…well.”

“She gave me one too,” Harry offered quietly. “It made no sense at the time. I didn’t know… if I had, I never would have let Wormtail….” With barely a thought he found his hand drawn to trace the scar on his arm where the ritual knife had carved him.

“You could not have known. Whereas I… no, I did not know what the words meant—the half that I managed to catch before Aberforth tossed me out. _The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies._ I knew it spoke of a child. A baby.”

Suddenly Harry’s own breath seemed to be choking him, and his twisting gut burned as if filled with acid. Snape… Snape had been the one. There had been a prophecy… it had been about _him_ , about _his parents_. And Snape….

“And I told him anyway, because what did I care for the life of one unknown brat? He was pleased with me, pleased that I had been in the right place at the right time… he told me to stand by his right side that night, and I was so damned proud of myself.”

The bitterness in those words penetrated some of the bile that was rising in Harry, pierced him for a moment with the sheer potency of the regret there. But then the churning rage rose up within him again, and grief, and buried whatever he might have felt at Snape’s unexpected vulnerability.

“And then the next time we met, I heard,” Snape continued hoarsely. “Two children due at the end of the month, and one of them to Lily. We could not know whose child was marked by the prophecy. The Dark Lord announced the Potters had been a thorn in his side for far too long. That it was time he paid them the courtesy of a home visit.”

Snape’s hands were trembling. Harry did not know how he noticed that through the maelstrom of emotions tearing through him, the things that were so potent that they left him speechless. His magic was reaching out again, rattling the few faded prints that adorned the walls, fluttering the pages of one of the books that Snape had left on the coffee table.

“I am not proud… I stayed behind. I begged him to spare Lily. He… he misunderstood. Thought… well. That I… _desired_ her.” Snape’s hands clenched on his knees, and his eyes squeezed shut. “I did not ask him to spare James, or you. I told myself that he would not, afterwards—that he knew I loathed James, that he intended to slay you and protect himself, and that he never would have entertained pleas to leave you breathing.” Another deep inhalation. “I know now what pale excuses they were.

“I went to the Headmaster immediately afterwards. I sent a Patronus; I pleaded for him to hear my case. Him, too… him I begged to protect only Lily. He agreed, in exchange for my services as his spy.” By then Snape’s breathing had turned harsh, as harsh as Harry’s own. “They would be hidden under Fidelius—you know of that business. When I heard they were betrayed… you think I wanted Black dead for our schoolyard animosity, but it was so much more than that. Yes, I had delivered those damning words, but him! They should have been safe in that house. Untouchable. And I believed him to be the Secret Keeper, the traitor…. I wanted him Kissed because I believed with my whole self that he deserved nothing less.”

“You told Voldemort,” Harry forced out through gritted teeth, “a prophecy about a baby who would destroy him. You told him, a bloody homicidal _dark wizard_ , knowing full well that he would go murder that baby, that he’d shove Hell itself aside to do it.”

Snape did not meet his eyes. “My actions were inexcusable.”

“Did you _just_ fucking realize this?” Harry shouted, and a seismic wave rippled through the room, rattling the boards, shaking the walls, loosing a few books. “Because you treated me like _shite_ for four years—and don’t even try to deny it!”

“I’m not, Harry,” Snape replied evenly, his voice subdued.

“You acted like I’d brought it all on myself or something! Like I’d _asked_ to be famous Harry Potter, like I just _lived_ for it. Like this fucking scar on my forehead is some kind of blessing! And it hurt, damn it, because for years, _years_ , my relatives treated me the exact same way, like I was so awful to be around, and that first class… it made me wonder if it was true. And then, this whole _fucking time_ , it was your fault to begin with that he came after them and blew them all to hell and got me landed with the bloody Dursleys! This _whole fucking time_ , you’re the one who ruined my whole life! And not that I expected you to come up and say, ‘Hello, Harry, I’m the one who got your parents killed, apologies about that’ or anything, but you _hated_ me, and you had _no bloody right_. I’m the one who should have hated you! The one who had a bloody _reason_ to hate you!”

Snape did not answer, or tell him to calm down and stop shaking the foundation of the house. He just sat with his head bowed and his hands in his lap, rigid, almost listless.

“Why the _hell_ were you so awful to me?” Harry demanded.

He expected Snape to remain silent. But the man didn’t. “Because I was a coward.”

Harry felt the storm of magical energy pulsating around him falter at those words and confusion muted some of the rage. “What?”

“I have thought on this,” Snape answered quietly, “extensively over the past few weeks. Initially I told myself it was because you so strongly resembled James, and I was content to believe you had inherited all of his less desirable traits. Then I told myself that it was because you resembled Lily, and reminded me of her, and that anger and hatred were a way to protect myself from my own grief. Or perhaps I was angry that you had survived and she hadn’t.

“But the ugly truth, I believe, is that I was terrified of this very conversation. Hating you—and ensuring that the feeling was mutual—meant that I would never have to face up to what I’d done. That I would never have to have this very conversation. You would never know me well enough to ask, and if you ever did, I would loathe you so much that I wouldn’t care.” Snape’s chest rose, and stayed expanded there for an interminable moment. And then, exhaling, he practically wheezed out, “I know I can never make it up to you. But I would like to try.”

The anger still coursed through Harry’s veins, practically humming, as memories of Snape’s cruelty and sneering over the years whirred through his mind. He wanted to yell more; he wanted to pierce Snape over and over with the guilt of what he’d done.

But tangled though all of that inextricably was the weight of the sheer _wrongness_ of this, of seeing Snape—contrite? Weak? Miserable? There was nothing of his normal self-assurance, not a trace, and nothing of the mask that he wore so easily, the stone-smooth façade that kept Harry from reading any of the more human emotions in his professor. It was as though the world had flipped on its axis, and Harry found himself plummeting suddenly into the sky. No foundation, no constant—fuck, when had _Snape_ become his anchor? Why did it feel as though as long as Snape was a needling, rude bastard, all was right in the world?

Too, in the mix, was a rational part of himself, whispering into the senseless screaming anger that what Snape had done was no worse than Sirius, running off like a madman and landing himself in prison, and never once fighting to be recognized as innocent. No worse than Dumbledore leaving him with the Dursleys and doing not a single thing more to help Harry to cope with his magic-loathing relatives. And certainly all of that ranked far below what Voldemort had done, or Peter Pettigrew, or any single one of the Death Eaters who had materialized in the graveyard that year.

It was too much.

“I need to think,” he choked out, but even as he said it he knew that he couldn’t stay in this house. He could still feel the rafters rattling, the faint vibrations of his magic making itself known. “I… I need….”

“ _Accio_ Harry’s broom.” The Firebolt burst from one of the closets in the hall and flew into Snape’s hand. Snape stood in one smooth motion to catch it, and offer it out to Harry. The man’s face was still drawn and haggard, and now his eyes were bright with worry. “Be careful.”

Why the fuck did Snape have to know exactly what he needed?

XXXXX

Harry flew in circles, mind far too preoccupied for anything more elaborate. His neck prickled from the Disillusionment Charm that Snape had hastily cast as he’d beelined for the door.

His innards churned. He felt too much, and all at once, and he was certain that too much more of this and he would come apart at the seams. He clutched at the handle of his broom, willing the roughness of the wood grain to ground him as he struggled to marshal his thoughts.

Snape had been a Death Eater. He’d known that. He’d known, too, on a theoretical level, that the man had probably done some terrible things. But he hadn’t been prepared to face down the fact that some of those terrible things had such direct impacts on his life.

It was strange how fast the boiling anger dissipated once he was up in the air. The cool rush of air as he kicked off seemed to leach the worst of it out of him, leaving him with just a queasiness in his stomach, and too many conflicting memories—the man who had spat at him that he would like to see Harry and Ron expelled, the man who had so carefully applied bruise balm just hours ago to every even vaguely discolored patch of skin. The man who had looked hollow and broken as he’d detailed the lowest moments of his life to Harry. The man who had begged Harry to be careful, please, when he’d handed Harry the very escape he’d so desperately needed.

He didn’t want to be angry at Snape. He’d moved past this—he’d forgiven the man, and meant it. But forgiveness wasn’t a neat thing, it seemed, and there was nothing to guard against these resurgences of resentment.

He didn’t want to be angry, he reminded himself. And Snape had paid for his mistakes. Harry didn’t want to know what the man had done to earn his place back at Voldemort’s side—or what the man’s Death Eater meetings entailed. And he’d saved Harry’s life too many times to count.

And that wasn’t even mentioning the thousand little things he’d done since, the things that Harry had tucked away into the shelves of his mind so carefully, like priceless heirlooms that he would always treasure. He could still feel the ghost of that warm hand on his back, rubbing in slow, deep circles as Harry cried himself out.

They’d moved past things. And then this—the revelation that Snape had…

Snape had… what? Been an idiot? Served the wrong master? Wanted to gain himself some recognition and shared the words of some blathering old woman—words, knowing the Potions Master, that he likely didn’t even _believe_ —words that Voldemort, not Snape, had taken seriously?

He had been a bastard. There was no disputing that. He’d had no right to be a bastard. In fact, that he had been so pompous and hateful was nothing short of unbelievable.

He regretted those mistakes, though, just like Harry regretted his. And admittedly, Harry’s mistakes had been far more innocent and far more forgivable. But Snape was only human (surprisingly), and Harry was smart enough to put two and two together. He’d had a terrible childhood, probably, and Lily had been his friend and probably the only good thing about it. And then something had happened, and Snape had lost even that, and being in Slytherin while Voldemort was gaining power, Harry surmised, was probably no cakewalk. Harry didn’t know exactly what had happened there, but he could guess enough of it, and he didn’t have it in him to believe that Snape hadn’t struggled when he’d joined Voldemort. Clearly he’d still loved Lily, and fiercely—because he had gone to Voldemort and begged for her life. And then gone to Dumbledore, not knowing if the Headmaster would ship him off to Azkaban or what.

And then the one person he’d loved had died anyway. Because it really didn’t seem like Snape had anyone else. Not that Harry could see, anyways. He clearly lived alone (he was pretty sure this was Snape’s house now and not some dump he’d bought on a whim), he never mentioned family, he never seemed to even correspond with anyone. He lived a solitary life.

And Harry guessed that he’d be pretty bitter, too, and cruel, if he had no one. Even now, when he knew that he had support—that the Weasleys liked him, that Sirius was there for him—he still felt those awful surges of black emotion—anger and loneliness, twined together sometimes. The sense that he would never have anyone of his own. That Sirius, affected as he was by the Dementors, would never be as reliable or stable as Harry wanted, and it was all the man’s fault for running after Pettigrew like a complete idiot and abandoning his orphaned godson. That the Weasleys, kind as they were, would never see him as a part of the family; that he would always have a place apart, as Ron’s friend. And Lupin… Harry knew he had to talk to Lupin. But Lupin was worn down by his condition, and even if the man had bothered to keep in touch with Harry, he didn’t have the wherewithal (or desire, probably) to be the kind of support figure Harry craved.

Harry had all of them, though. And Snape had had no one.

Another realization struck Harry as he looped in the sky again, this time dipping gently toward the house, brushing the weathervane that twisted lazily above the half-finished roof. He needed to keep working on that—really, it still looked a mess. Snape didn’t like it, he knew, even if Harry thought the reason was dumb. No, he hadn’t liked being forced to do chores at the Dursleys, but he did like the satisfaction of seeing the results of his work. He still took pride in his labor—had done so even at the Dursleys. And not just because he was afraid of what they’d do if he’d done less than his best. He liked knowing that he was capable. He liked hearing the neighbors remark on the lovely flower beds at Number Four, or Vernon complaining that there was no roast left the next day because it had been gobbled up the night before. And here, he knew that Snape at least would acknowledge a job well done, even if he disagreed with Harry working on it in the first place.

Harry pulled up abruptly on his broom, stilling it and interrupting his circling. He _wanted_ Snape to acknowledge his good work. He… he wanted _Snape_ to be a support figure. Still.

Suddenly he was gripping his broom handle painfully, and his throat was pinched too tightly for him to swallow.

It didn’t matter, he decided. Snape had been stupid and awful and never should have passed on that prophecy, but it didn’t matter, because the man was sorry and was being better. And he was still sarcastic and at times impatient, and definitely annoyingly unbending in his decisions, but Harry could accept all that. Liked it, even, because it meant that the man wouldn’t cosset him. He would just charge forward unrelentingly and unapologetically, making Harry eat and talk through his feelings and keep up with his relationships with his friends and surrogate family. He was exactly the kind of— _adult_ —Harry needed in his life.

Slowly, heart still racing from his revelation, Harry allowed himself to drift downward. He touched feet to the ground and dismounted his broom with a great deal more care than he would normally. The Disillusionment Charm still enrobed him, and it was an odd thing to walk back into the house while still mostly invisible.

Snape was at the kitchen table, a cup of tea clutched in both of his hands. Harry froze in the doorway, taken aback by how despondent the man looked. He glanced up slightly, limp dark hair framing his face, his expression nearly blank.

The door fell shut behind Harry. And still Snape said nothing.

For something to do, Harry fumbled his wand out and muttered a quick _finite incantatum_ , dispelling the charm. Unnerving, he thought, to watch his arm ripple a bit and fill back in with color.

His move, Harry thought. Snape seemed to be determined to let Harry determine how to proceed.

Harry didn’t have the faintest clue what to say, or how to go forward. So he just blurted out what was most on his mind. “I forgive you.”

Relief and, strangely enough, gratitude, flickered across Snape’s features before being folded so expertly back into that unreadable mask. “You don’t have to, Harry,” he said quietly, his voice so strangely soft and deferential that Harry could hardly bear it. “You don’t have to make this decision now, either. You can have as much time as you need to reflect on it. And if… if you would prefer to remain at Grimmauld in the interim—if you need space—”

“I don’t,” Harry cut the man off, and almost hoped that Snape would at least glare at him for the interruption.

No such luck. “I know what I have done is very nearly unforgivable. It would be natural for you to be angry with me still. And you may of course remain here, regardless of your feelings, if you wish—”

“I really forgive you,” Harry insisted, unable to prevent his irritation from bleeding into his tone. “I know what you did wasn’t right or fair, but I don’t care enough to stay mad about it. And I want to put this all behind us.”

Snape nodded once—but a troubled wrinkle creased his brow. “If you change your mind—”

“I’m not going to change my mind.”

Snape winced, and Harry realized retrospectively how harshly those words had come out. “I only mean to say that if you find yourself contending with unresolved feelings, or if you wish to discuss specifics—particular past interactions, my history, anything—I am more than willing—”

“Fine.” Harry really wanted Snape to nod briskly, and snap back into his old self. This—this was starting to become unnerving.

Snape still clutched his empty teacup. His eyes fell back to it, and idly he began rolling it back and forth. “I wished to express again how very sorry I am for all that has passed—for your parents, as well as for the years of anguish—”

Harry couldn’t stand to hear Snape’s apologies. Was this how the man felt every time Harry tried to excuse himself? If so, he could begin to understand the man’s claims of stomach ulcers. “I know, and it’s fine. I really want to move past it.”

Snape nodded faintly. “Of course. And as I said, I will do everything in my power to make amends.”

That was worse than the apologies. Harry’s gut clenched at the sheer _wrongness_ of this. Snape was too cowed, too… not Snape. “I really want to just forget about it and start fresh,” Harry tried, though he couldn’t get his teeth to unclench enough to get the words out.

The pain that rippled over Snape’s face was too much. “As you wish,” he agreed, but Harry could hear the unspoken words. _If only that were possible_.

Harry wondered if a snarky, insolent reply would get Snape to rebuke him, and break the Potions Master out of this… whatever it was. He opened his mouth, but he couldn’t think of anything. And he didn’t actually want to insult Snape. Something told him that Snape might actually welcome the abuse.

Slowly, as if he were decades earlier than he had been that very morning, Snape rose from his chair and shuffled his way over to the sink. “I will start on dinner. Is there anything in particular that you would like?”

“No,” Harry mumbled.

“We could order out. Perhaps you would like to choose something to try?”

There were plenty of things, Harry thought, that he would like to try. Indian or Chinese, which Hermione had recommended to him. Or even some pub food, which he had only ever had since being able to go into Hogsmeade.

But he hated how _solicitous_ Snape was now. He reminded Harry of Aunt Petunia trying to pull Dudley out of a sulk. Harry had a feeling that if he flat-out demanded ice cream for dinner, Snape would acquiesce. Would probably take note of Harry’s favorite flavor and run out to buy it.

And that was just _wrong_. Snape should give him some concise explanation—that Harry hadn’t eaten out in his life, and had best not make a fuss because they _would_ be getting takeaway, and Harry _would_ be choosing what kind exactly. And then he would glare at Harry and dare him to refuse. And that would be fine.

“No.” Harry clutched his broom.

“Harry,” Snape murmured, setting his cup into the sink at last. “Truly, it is fine if you are still angry with me. You have much to be angry for—”

“I’m not!” Harry growled, “and stop saying that I am! I know how I feel, and I don’t need you to tell me how I _should_ feel, okay?”

Harry saw the knowing look in Snape’s eyes, and the faint misery tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Of course.” The reply was smooth, but Harry knew it was placating. Knew that Snape mistook his frustrated tone and vehement denials for proof positive of his anger and hurt.

He needed to go flying again. He pushed out the back door, broom in hand, without another word to Snape, letting the door slam behind him. Probably not the best thing for convincing Snape that he wasn’t actually upset with the man.

He’d forgotten the Disillusionment Charm. Damn it. But he wasn’t going to go back in there, not when his every retort seemed to be making things worse. Besides, Snape’s wards were concealing, and extended at least a little ways up over the house. Snape had told him as much. He’d just float up there while he tried to sort this out.

He kicked off hard and shot up before pulling himself to a hard stop once he’d become level with the weathervane. And then he just floated there, seething with how much a mess things had become between him and Snape.

It had been just that morning—just hours ago!—that everything had been fine. Comfortable, even. Of course nothing good could last very long, not for Harry. Of course Snape’s stupid confession had to ruin things, and not even in the most obvious way.

Because even if Harry might have a little lingering resentment for Snape, he could deal with that. But no, it was Snape sitting down there, so obviously crushed by a burden of guilt, so downtrodden that he—hell-born terror of the dungeons—was walking on eggshells. What could Harry do about that? Tell the man to stop? Tell him to buck up? As if that would do any good.

Maybe Snape would get better. But Lord only knew how long that would take. Months, if not years. And Harry didn’t have years to put up with this—whatever. It was worse than coddling, that was for sure.

Harry searched for a solution, positively wracked his brain trying to conjure some solution to un-break Snape. But drifting aimlessly on his broom wasn’t cutting it, so he flipped himself upside down and dangled, clinging to the handle like a sloth to a tree branch. And then he remembered Snape’s admonition not to try any foolhardy stunts.

An idea struck him. A stupid idea that probably wouldn’t work, but it was worth a shot. Though with his luck Snape wasn’t even watching him. And it wasn’t like it had worked in the past—though then his aim had been quite different.

Still, he didn’t think he had many options at the moment. So this was worth a shot.

Harry righted himself slowly, trying to decide exactly what he wanted to do. A shame his conversation with Sirius hadn’t circled around to broom tricks. Well, standing up had been one of the more difficult maneuvers he’d performed over the years. In fact, he was pretty certain he hadn’t even attempted it since that Quidditch match his first year. It might be more difficult now that he was less an undersized runt and more a gangly, if still a bit short, teenager.

He swung one leg up and braced his foot against the handle, shifted his weight, and in one heart-stopping moment hoisted himself up, pulling his other foot up to the handle. He lurched forward for a bit, and for one awful, flailing moment, he thought he was going to pitch forward into freefall—but he managed to regain his equilibrium and stabilize himself. And even though this was just a stupid stunt with a much greater purpose in mind, he couldn’t help but grin to himself at his accomplishment.

He found that with a little nudge of his magic, he could get the broom to drift forward and rotate slowly toward the house. He wondered how long it would take for Snape to notice him. He was fairly certain the man would keep a close eye on him after he’d stormed out without the charm—

He nearly toppled off his broom when he caught sight of Snape glaring up at him from in front of the back door. Not long at all, then.

But his gambit had certainly worked. Snape was livid.

Suddenly, Harry was wondering whether he should have given Snape time to sort through his own feelings and recover from his confession, rather than trying to force things back into normalcy (or what passed for normalcy lately) by pissing Snape off. Because boy, had he pissed the man off.

Snape didn’t speak, only gripped his wand hard in his left hand and pointed violently with his right to the empty lawn in front of him, the command clear as day.

Swallowing hard, Harry gently guided the broom down to the ground and stepped off. He moved to grab it, but Snape slashed his wand at it, and suddenly it was careening toward the house of its own accord, the door just barely flying open in time to let it in.

Harry had a sinking feeling that he would not be seeing his Firebolt for quite some time.

“What. Were. You. _Thinking_?”

 _Good job, Harry_ , he congratulated himself, flinching back from the icy tone and spittle both. _Definitely not overly solicitous now, is he?_

Harry knew he should explain what he’d intended. But he couldn’t string the words together to shed light on what he’d actually tried to do. _I wanted you to be angry so you’d stop being too nice_ sounded utterly brainless. And actually, maybe it was. Maybe Harry’s reasoning had been less than sound.

“Um—I stood up on my broom my first year—”

“And I wanted to strangle you then as well,” Snape hissed, seizing Harry roughly by the upper arm and thrusting him back toward the house. “What did I tell you? What did I expressly forbid when I allowed you to have that blasted contraption back?”

“I know, but see, it… I needed to make you angry—”

“Angry is not the word, Potter, believe me.” A hand at the back of his neck now, and not the warm, reassuring kind. This one was tight as an iron collar, and pushed him to the left, straight into the corner of the kitchen, relenting only when Harry’s nose was one inch from the place where the two walls met.

Harry tried to turn around to face Snape, to explain himself, but the second he started to pivot, Snape grabbed him by the back of the head and repositioned him so that he was once again practically suffocating from his proximity to the walls.

“You are going to stand right there and think about why you have decided to behave so foolishly and recklessly—”

“I wanted things to go back to normal!” Harry cut in, his words muffled by the walls. He wanted to twist back to Snape, but the hand at the back of his head kept him from turning so much as an inch. “You… you were all….”

“You did not care for my demeanor, so you decided to risk your life?”

Well, put that way, it sounded bad. “No, I just wanted to disobey you enough that you’d… you know, get all….” Fuck, he had to say the word. “Parental. It… you weren’t listening to me! I told you I just wanted to forget it, but you… it was awful, okay? And I don’t need you tiptoeing around me. I’ve told you that. But you didn’t listen, and I had to do something, because I just couldn’t stand you being… not you. I… you’re good at, you know, not letting me get away with stuff, and it seemed like that was going to change because you were all guilty—”

“And you waited precisely how long to do something about this perceived problem?” Snape demanded, his voice clipped.

Harry was glad, actually, that he was facing the corner, because he could feel a hot blush rising on his cheeks. “Um….”

“You will stand there and contemplate your actions. And then you will explain to me, in detail, the tangled mess that I will kindly term your _thought process_ that led you to tempt Fate and nearly break your neck— _again_. You will tell me precisely why it was wrong, and if your explanation is not satisfactory, you will spend more time in the corner pondering your actions. And then we will discuss the consequences of this stunt.”

Snape was going to make him stand in the corner? The man couldn’t be serious.

Except he was, and Harry knew that he was. “I’m almost fifteen,” he pointed out, hating how much of a whine emerged in his tone. “I’m too old to… to be put in a corner—”

“Perhaps if you had acted your age,” Snape suggested in that deadly cool tone of his, “you would not be here right now. And your contemplation will be silent, Mr. Potter. Argue with me again and you will stand there even longer.”

“If you would just let me explain _why_ , though—”

“You have. And your desire to _get me angry_ does not excuse your actions, regardless of what you believe you needed to accomplish.”

“You don’t understand—”

“I do. I understand exactly. And I am giving you precisely what you just told me you need.”

Those words did all kinds of things to him—a cold trickle down his neck, a twist and fluttering in his gut, another rush of heat over his cheeks. Snape was giving him limits. Boundaries. Snape was holding him accountable. And he hated that, even while he appreciated it and was grateful for it.

So he murmured, “Yes, sir.” And he resigned himself to his thinking-time in the corner.

Snape released his head almost immediately, and stepped back. Harry resisted the urge to turn and face him. It sounded as though he left the kitchen for a moment, then returned. Harry heard the scrape of a wooden chair, the soft groan against the tiles as Snape presumably settled into it, and following that the soft rustle of a page at regular intervals.

Harry waited. And waited. And waited. His feet started to ache, and the scintillating view of two inches of faded light-grey paint was beginning to wear on him. His breath was too warm for the small space, too, and really, how long had it been? Half an hour, at least.

He tried to be patient, but at last he decided that Snape was probably just waiting for him to break and acknowledge that he’d learned his lesson. “Okay, I get it. You’re still in charge—”

“You are not done contemplating, Mr. Potter. Nose back in the corner.”

Harry bit back a groan as he stopped twisting around. “You’ve made your point—”

“I am not making a point. You are there to contemplate an incredibly foolish decision, and you have lengthened the amount of time you will be spending there. A shame, as you were doing so well.”

Harry sighed. Okay, so Snape was going to be a bastard about this, probably to dispel any notion that his guilt would make him a pushover. Great. “How long do I have to stand here?”

“Even longer now, since you cannot follow directions.”

Harry knocked his head lightly into the corner. “I just want to know how long—”

“Longer still, since you are still having such trouble doing as you were told. And the answer to your question is ‘until I say you can come out’, if that was not clear enough.”

Why in the hell had he told Snape that he needed him to be parental?

An interminable amount of time later, and Harry was certain that this was the worst punishment that had ever been invented. He was going out of his mind just standing there and staring at nothing. And he would have traded his wand for any kind of surface he could sit on. A stool, a rock, anything.

He knew he shouldn’t. He knew what Snape was going to say as soon as he opened his mouth. And still he opened it. “Can I please come out now?”

“No. If you would actually focus on your task instead of obsessing over how long this is going to last, you would already be finished. Instead, you will stand there even longer now.”

This time Harry did groan aloud as he knocked his head once more against the corner.

Snape made no comment, just continued to flip pages as if nothing had happened.

Harry decided he had better decide what he was going to say. He wasn’t all that sorry, even if he wasn’t thrilled with his current situation. After all, he’d broken Snape out of that awful mood, even if he’d had to provoke the man to do so. And if Snape would just see that and give Harry a pass, just this once….

So. Snape was pretty well ticked off with Harry. And Harry was pretty sure the man would make him stand here for just as long as it suited him, because any hesitation and deference he’d felt previously was long since gone. So Harry settled in and began turning over what he’d done in his mind.

Okay. From Snape’s perspective. Snape had been feeling all around rotten about his stupid decisions, and trying to tell Harry that he should still be upset. And Harry had stormed off at that, and generally been an unpleasant little prat rather than mature and level-headed about the whole affair.

So Snape, guilty and miserable, had watched Harry rush outside. And then, what? Probably meandered over to the window to check on him. Watched Harry climb up onto his broom, almost lose his balance….

Okay. Yeah, Snape probably hadn’t liked that feeling. Not at all, if Harry thought back to how he’d reacted to Harry climbing up onto the roof. And Harry could admit that a narrow beam of wood floating midair was probably considerably less safe than a ladder and a broad, slanted surface that wasn’t going anywhere.

Harry swallowed hard as guilt now washed through _him_ instead. He’d wondered for half an instant, why Snape hadn’t yelled at him, but the truth was obvious now. He’d probably been terrified of startling Harry and sending him pitching toward the ground. So he’d kept silent and watched, probably hoping that Harry would come down, or that he’d be able to renew the Cushioning Charms in time to lessen the impact if Harry did fall.

Oh, and he’d been worrying. The kind of worried that preceded the vicious anger that had overtaken his features the second Harry had made eye contact. Harry’s stomach flipped at that thought. He kept forgetting that Snape actually worried about him.

And he might have fallen. What if he’d broken his neck? What if Snape hadn’t come out to watch? What if Harry had slipped and hit his head and died, and Snape had come out to find him in a broken heap on the lawn? And that after he’d confessed so many things to Harry, after he’d apologized so profusely and seemed so very swamped with regret.

Harry wrapped his arms around his stomach and hugged himself a little. Snape was right. He should have just waited a bit. Let Snape feel bad, let him work through it. Not rushed ahead like a damned fool and give the man another heart attack, not when he was already feeling so terrible.

Harry had no idea how long he stood there. He was still swimming through half-formed sentences by the time Snape final announced, “You may turn around.”

Harry did, his eyes on the floor, all the words he’d been trying to string together lodging firmly in his too-dry throat.

“Tell me what you did.”

Harry swallowed painfully. “Put myself in danger.”

“And was it worth it? Was your decision justified?”

Harry shook his head to the ground. “No.”

“Indeed. You also disobeyed me directly, did you not?”

Harry closed his eyes tightly. “Yes,” he admitted. That, too, felt awful. “I… I’m sorry. I was dumb. I just… I didn’t think.”

“You cannot continue to do that.” Snape’s tone was stern, but exasperated too, no longer that polished, unfeeling cadence that he often adopted when overseeing detentions. Now there was a hint of real emotion buried in there, burning like a remnant ember. “You cannot charge ahead without thinking, because one of these days your damnable luck will run out, and then….”

The soft, rasping quality of Snape’s voice as he trailed off there was what did it for Harry. “I’m sorry,” he choked, even as he felt warm dampness pricking in his eyes. “I really am. I just—I hated how you were talking so much, and… and I overreacted, and I didn’t think. I didn’t mean to… I’m not used to anyone caring, honest. I mean, I know Mrs. Weasley would chew me out if I ever did anything, but it’s—it’s not the same. I really am sorry, I swear.”

A long pause. And then, heavily, Snape replied, “I accept your apology. But that does not mean you are wheedling out of the consequences.”

Harry nodded to his shoes. “I know.” And then Harry steeled himself, because he needed to know that this was over—the worst of it, at least. He needed to know that Snape forgave him. And he was too much of a coward to ask. So instead he dared a small step forward, so that he was just half a step away from Snape, well within range, and he held his breath as he waited for Snape to either simply step back and sweep away, or—

Harry let his breath out in a rush as Snape wrapped an arm around him and pulled him in tight against the man’s side. 

“I need you to listen to me now,” Snape continued quietly, practically speaking into Harry’s ear. “Regardless of how you feel in this moment, I need you to know that it is perfectly natural for you to have unresolved feelings regarding my past actions. And that, should those feelings arise, and should you feel the need, you may come speak to me—or yell at me, or curse me out, as necessary. I do not want you to shove your anger down and bury it, is that clear?”

Harry nodded weakly into Snape’s shoulder. He didn’t want the man to let him go. It was pathetic, he knew, but it felt so good to bury his face against Snape’s shoulder and hide there and just feel accepted.

Snape sighed, and the hand clasped to his shoulder began to rub up and down a bit. Harry leaned harder into Snape, fatigue washing over him the longer he stood there. He still really wanted to sit, but he didn’t want the embrace to end.

But it did anyway. Snape drew back, untangling his arm so he could use his hand to tilt Harry’s chin up slightly. His dark, assessing gaze seemed to pierce straight into Harry. “You’re exhausted,” he muttered, rolling his eyes a bit. “And no wonder. Go lie down for a bit. You can start on your lines after supper.”

Harry bit his lip, twisting a hand in the hem of his shirt. “Er… am I allowed to ask how many lines?”

A faint smirk tugged at Snape’s lips then. “A mere five hundred. This time. And suffice to say, your feet will be staying on the ground for a few weeks at least. And all dueling between us is suspended until you have completed your lines.”

Not ideal. But definitely not unreasonable, either. So Harry nodded dejectedly, trying not to think about how dull his birthday was going to be if he couldn’t even go flying. But… he’d brought this on himself. And he would just have to accept the consequences this time.

At least he wouldn’t have to spend his birthday locked in his room. Probably. Snape might even let him visit his friends. Though he would probably do better waiting a few days to ask about that particular topic.

“Go on,” Snape repeated, giving him a little nudge. “Take the sofa if you’ll be comfortable there.”

Harry nodded again, and then, on impulse, lunged forward again, snaking one arm around Snape’s midsection and giving him a quick squeeze before trying to pull back and flee.

Snape caught him, though, both arms coming around him briefly and trapping him there for a long, slow squeeze that seemed to wring the last remaining drops of anxiety out of Harry. Snape even twisted a bit, back and forth. Harry was glad once again to be able to hide his damp eyes.

“You’re a smart boy. Stop making stupid decisions,” was all Snape said before releasing him and making his unhurried way to the fridge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember the bit where I said I never update regularly, sorry and thanks for your patience? The good news is I'm recovered from my surgery and back to work! The bad news is I'm writing slow as ever.  
> This one was another doozy to write. I hope the wait was worth it.   
> Again, I am always most sincerely humbled by the kind, generous, and long comments some of you leave. I am terrible at replying (or even acknowledging them!) but I do read every single one and appreciate the time you take to leave feedback.  
> As for the few folks who have mentioned that this story resonates with you in a personal way, please accept all the love and kindness I can pour at you through this work. I am truly humbled to be able to create something that speaks to you.   
> As always, thanks for your readership :) Cheers (and please stay healthy!) ~Mel


	24. Interlude: A Late-Night Chat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Severus' POV following Harry's Floo call with Sirius in Chapte 21

Severus recoiled at the sudden unexpected whoosh of the fireplace to his right. It was late, and he could only imagine who would be calling on him at this hour.

"Snape."

Severus instinctively relaxed a bit, though not entirely. The mutt was only marginally better than one of his Death Eater compatriots. "Black." He did not bother putting down his reading, or even turning toward the fireplace for that matter.

"I want to talk to you."

Severus sneered down at the secondhand muggle text splayed on his knee. "Talk, then. If you're waiting for an invitation—"

"Face to face. About my godson."

Severus snapped his book shut contemptuously and rose in one fluid motion, wishing he had robes to settle around him instead of the slacks and button-down that he currently wore. "The answer is no. You have made your appeals to the headmaster and been denied. You have spoken to the boy at length, and if I do not miss my mark, at no point during your chat did he weep to you about his misery here and plead for you to rescue him. I have made concessions—though I will not force him to endure your company, and I will remain firm on that point—"

"Merlin, Snape, I know. Can I just come through?"

Much as Severus wanted to snap out a "no" and simply douse the flames and seal off the grate, he was far more curious about the strained note of civility that had miraculously emerged in Black's tone. "You have ten minutes. After that, I will let my wards deal with you."

The green flames of the Floo roared and flashed brighter, and the next moment Black was stepping through, dusting ash off of a rather worn velvet frock coat, dark plum and outdated by several decades. He had been looking less emaciated of late, but even so the color and weight eroded over his years in Azkaban had him looking more ghoulish than human.

Surprisingly, he didn't simply sprawl out on Severus' sofa just as if he owned the place. Instead, he leaned back against the mantle, hands clasped loosely at his waist, looking, if Severus didn't know better, extremely uncertain, maybe even nervous.

"Well?" Severus demanded, tucking his book under his arm. "I presume you have a reason to disturb me at this hour? You've already spoken to the boy, and he's been in bed for an hour, so whatever you might like to say to him will have to wait until tomorrow—"

"Harry said you made him talk to me."

Severus felt his nostrils flare wide as he drew in a sharp breath. "Believe me, I did not do so out of any love for you. Were you not named his godfather, I would not have given you the time of day."

Black tilted his head toward the ceiling. "Yeah, gathered that. Look, Harry… he seems all right here."

"Your approval warms my heart. Now, if that was all you had to say—"

"No, damn it, it wasn't. I don't like you and I don't trust you, but… but Harry thinks you care about him. And it seems like you actually do." Black shifted his arms, folding them defensively over his chest. "You know about his relatives."

A statement, not a question. Severus nodded once tersely to confirm.

"Harry said you did something to them."

"Nothing you can prove, trust me."

Black snorted. "Of course." Black's eyes wandered to the corner of the room for a moment. "Did he tell you anything about them? Details?"

Severus curled his hand more tightly over the spine of his book as he fought back the familiar white-hot spike of rage. "Some. Not willingly, I admit—before he tells you himself. But if I hadn't gotten the truth out of him, I never would have had the evidence to approach Albus, and he would likely be on his way back to those vile creatures already. I did what I thought I had to, and not for the pleasure of tormenting your precious godson, as I'm sure you assume—"

"You did what you had to."

Severus nearly choked on his words.

"And Harry… seems like he's forgiven you for it. Look, I knew from the first something was off, but I didn't think it would be so bad… I should have said something, but I thought…. Did you know he wanted to live with me? Third year, after all that business in the Shack. I mean, I was an idiot, I was just babbling—I'd forgotten he was even staying with anyone, you know. That was the only reason I offered. But he jumped at it, said yes right then and there, like he was homeless and had been waiting forever for someone to offer. I didn't think much of it then, but now…."

Severus drew a deep, calming breath. "Is there a point to this rambling?"

"Don't be a prick." At last Black returned his gaze squarely to Severus. "Look, I'm his godfather. I deserve to know what those rat bastards did to him."

"Harry can tell you himself, if he chooses, and when he's ready. I will not violate his confidence to sate your curiosity."

Black opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. "Fine. But if he's… you know, not doing okay, I expect to know."

Severus grit his teeth. "Let me use smaller words. _Ask your godson yourself._ I will not offer you information that he himself has not offered. I will not make secret reports on his state of mind to you. And I most certainly will not tell him to confide in you when he is still hurt by your betrayal—"

"I didn't betray him!"

"You most certainly did!" Severus rebutted, stalking over to his bookshelf and stuffing the muggle volume on top of his other tomes. He needed something else to focus on, he knew, or he was liable to start something with the mutt, and cause a commotion, and that would wake Harry…. He drew a deep breath and focused on calming his thoughts as he pretended to straighten out his books. "I admit I despised the boy prior to this summer, and was predisposed to think the worst of him. You, however… you realize that boy spared the man who betrayed his parents? That he holds no grudge against you for running off half-cocked and abandoning him to their care?"

Black flushed a little at those words, but not entirely, Severus sensed, with anger. "Yes, I know. He's a good kid."

"So he is. And you knew this. Yet you didn't rise to his defense."

"Moony and I thought he might—you know, do something like that for a lark. I can't imagine being stuck in a muggle neighborhood like that one all summer and not losing his mind. And Moony thought it might have been a way of coping with the grief or something—"

"You didn't even talk to him, you imbecile. Neither of you. And you had good reason to." Severus ran a finger down the spine of a worn defense volume, one he'd bought secondhand during his last years at Hogwarts. "His neighbor said that he helps her with her groceries every week. He's kind, for all he's been through."

Severus watched from the corner of his eye as Black seemed to contemplate his own feet for a time.

"I just… I want to help him. And I don't like you, and I don't trust you—"

"Flattery will get you everywhere. I'll forgive the redundancy, as I know Azkaban has taken most of what little mind you ever possessed—"

"Shut up." Black ran a hand through his messy hair, then began nervously rubbing at the scruffy beard on his chin. "Dumbledore trusts you." This he seemed to be murmuring more to himself than anything, as if arguing with himself. He jerked his gaze up abruptly, his eyes almost wild again. "Why did you make Harry talk to me? He said you did. He said that he didn't even want to."

"Because for him reliable adults seem to be of short supply. Instead he'll have to make do with you." Severus turned back fully toward the man, folding his arms over his chest, and he glared. "So you'd best be reliable, Black, or you will answer to me."

Black met Severus' gaze steadily. "I will be. I want to be. I just…." He made another nervous pass through his hair, front to back, fingers tangling in the strands. "It's like this. I can't be there for him like I want to be. He can't live with me. I can't be his guardian. Moony either. And Molly and Arthur would have him in a heartbeat, but… hell, Harry doesn't even want to go to them, does he? Molly said he ate with you the other day, all on his own. And the way he talks about you…."

Severus tried to pretend that his stomach hadn't just done a little flip. How _did_ Harry talk about him these days? He imagined it wasn't too harshly, for all their colorful past. The boy _had_ defended him to his little friends, he'd gathered, since none of the Weasleys had either assaulted or interrogated him. And surely Granger would have felt entitled to a full explanation if Harry had even hinted that he was unhappy with their current arrangements.

"I need to know what this is to you. Because if you're really just a sick son of a bitch looking to get one over on James still by getting close to his son, then dropping him when he needs you most—"

"Get out," Severus snarled, a hot sweep of temper boiling through him. "Get out before I hex you. I would not dare… you think this is some game to me? That I would, what, spend weeks attempting to give him stability and shelter here, just to rip it all away and laugh at his _trauma_? The boy I can understand believing me to be so cruel. I have been…." Severus ground his teeth together. No. He did not owe Black an explanation or apology. Harry, yes, but not this slavering mutt who would have treated _his_ enemy's son no better.

"But you," he continued relentlessly, his hand sliding down carefully to his wand. "Just because you find a broken childhood to be fodder for torment—"

"My childhood wasn't exactly a field of daisies, Snape," Black cut in, his hands balling into fists. "And that's not what I'm saying. I mean that you've gotten Harry and James pretty muddled in the past. I know you hate me, and I know you hate James, and you know Harry means the world to us—"

"I am not going to use him as a _pawn_ to exact vengeance, you addle-brained twat! I don't want to see him hurt any more than you, and for you to imply that even now, after he has been living with me for weeks, after I have arranged for him to see a Mind Healer to begin to process the unrelenting hell that has been his life—"

"So you really do care about him." Just as suddenly as it had come, the ferocity was gone from Black's voice. It was soft, wondering.

Severus thought he could have qualified that statement. _Yes, I wish to see him prosper. I want to see him overcome the hand that has been dealt to him. I wish to support him however I can._ But those qualifications would have only confirmed the obvious truth rather than concealed it. So instead he admitted, just as softly, "Yes."

Black dipped his head just once. "Thought so." He tipped his head back a bit to stare at the ceiling. "I still don't like you."

"Again, the feeling is mutual. Now out. Your ten minutes have long since expired."

"Have you told him about your Death Eater days?" A pause, and then insistently, "Have you told him how it ended with Lily?"

"No," Severus growled firmly. "Nor do I intend to. I know you despise me, Black, but your godson needs a stable home and an adult he can turn to. You have already earned his ire—you and the rest of the motley band of fools he has made do with thus far. I will not make him feel as though he cannot rely on me either, regardless of whatever moral ground you believe you hold—"

"God damn it, Snape, that's not what I meant! I just—fuck, you can't see how much worse it will be if he learns it from someone else? No, not me—damn it, don't give me that look. I wouldn't. But I don't know what his classmates might have heard from their parents, or what they might take it into their heads to say, and don't you think Harry's trust in you would be shattered if he heard it from them instead?"

The words slid like a serrated steel edge into Severus' heart, stopping the breath in his lungs. If Harry learned it from someone else just what he'd said to Lily, or if Albus—damn him thrice over—decided to explain how he'd thrown a certain potions master out of the Hog's Head when it came time to discuss his birth prophecy….

Merlin, Harry would never turn to him again, much less want to remain in his care for any amount of time.

Severus swallowed hard as he tried to break the paralysis that seemed to have overtaken his lungs. "Fine. I'll discuss it with him." And he'll never wish to speak to me again anyway, he thought bitterly. Just when he felt they had reached an understanding. He'd gotten Harry to agree to see the Mind Healer with less fuss than he had expected, and the boy was finally eating enough that Severus didn't feel the absolute need to heap extra onto his plate at every meal. And Harry had cast a spell, at long last. Definitely, he was feeling more settled.

And now all of that might be undone with one unnecessary tale about Severus' foolishness in his youth.

"Was there anything else, Black? Perhaps you'd like me to detail all of my dark deeds whilst serving the Dark Lord as well? Or recount the horrible ways in which I retaliated against you and your ilk during our school days?"

"Is there any way you could be less of a prick?" Black asked casually, like he was asking for a trivial favor.

Severus drew his wand, deciding he'd tolerated this long enough.

Black's was out in a flash, too, and suddenly it was like the years since their Hogwarts days had evaporated, and they were back in the corridors after hours, circling one another, Black grinning and Severus snarling, ready to throw as many hexes as they could before they were caught.

Black wasn't smiling this time, though. His eyes were serious, steady—and his stance was surprisingly relaxed. "I'm really trying to help you," he insisted. "Well, Harry, actually—but that means helping you. Just… be honest with the kid. I know he'll forgive you." Black closed his eyes for a moment, a flash of pain twisting his features. "After all… he forgave me."

Severus did not know what was going on, or who had Polyjuiced into Black this evening. It sounded like Lupin. It likely wasn't one of the Weasley boys who'd heard too much from a few indiscriminate adults at Headquarters. (If it was, he would skin the culprit alive).

As it was, he just wanted whoever, or whatever, this impostor was out of his home so he could get his much-needed sleep.

"Just leave," Severus muttered, too weary for words. He sheathed his wand.

"Talk again soon, then?"

Severus whipped out a Stinging Hex, but Black was too fast, and the spell scorched harmlessly against the curling wallpaper.

"Have to do this again sometime." And with that he Apparated.

Severus muttered a non-magical curse and sheathed his wand again, likely with more force than was warranted. He scrubbed a weary hand over his face, and then he made his way up the stairs to check on Harry. The wards hadn't gone off, but still….

The boy was there, tangled in a mess of blankets, snoring just the tiniest bit.

Severus shook his head to himself and, stealing in quietly, moved to nudge Harry from the contorted position on his stomach to his side. The snoring stopped.

And Harry's eyes blinked open for a moment. "Sn… no, Sev'rus," he corrected himself sleepily. "Have to 'member…."

Severus couldn't resist the urge. He told himself it was because Harry's hair was in his eyes, and it would drive him mad if left that way. So he carded a hand gently through the boy's tousled mop, brushing the strands back as he did so. "Don't stress over it. Now, go back to sleep. You were up late enough tonight. I think we might have to enforce a strict midnight bedtime."

Harry's eyes had slipped back shut, but his face wrinkled a touch at Severus' words. "Mm-mm, don't have to…."

"Then go back to sleep."

" 'Kay." And Harry leaned into Severus' hand, which was still on his brow because… well, to keep the hair out of the boy's eyes. So he could fall asleep.

As he gazed down at the sleeping boy, Severus' thoughts strayed back to the worn muggle book that he'd stowed on the shelf downstairs. He would have to buy more like it, he thought, with a vague ripple of distaste. Unfortunately, there was little in the wizarding world to aid him in the subject of how to foster traumatized youth. He needed all the help he could get with this one. Merlin knew there was precious little natural instinct in him that would serve him in this area.

Then again, it might all be for nothing if he followed through with the mutt's suggestion. Harry very well might want nothing to do with him. And rightly so.

Severus' stomach clenched tightly at that thought. No, he would not let it come to that. He would do whatever it took to mend their relationship following that revelation. And he would stick with it for however long it took. No half-hearted efforts as he'd made with Lily, only to implode and sink further into his own despair. This time would be different.

Besides, Harry needed him. Black was right on that count, at least.

Severus hesitated for half a second, then bent down and pressed a chaste kiss to Harry's brow, praying the boy wouldn't wake. It was foolish in the extreme, he knew, but he couldn't resist. And he was not going to examine too closely why that strong instinct had risen up within him.

Resting now like this, Harry looked so much younger, so much less troubled. Severus wished he could find some way to bring this level of peace to his ward during his waking hours.

He would tell the boy. Soon. And he would pray that, for once in his miserable life, Black was right, and Harry did forgive him. Eventually, at least.

Besides, Harry needed him. Black was right on that count, at least.

Severus hesitated for half a second, then bent down and pressed a chaste kiss to Harry's brow, praying the boy wouldn't wake. It was foolish in the extreme, he knew, but he couldn't resist. And he was not going to examine too closely why that strong instinct had risen up within him.

Resting now like this, Harry looked so much younger, so much less troubled. Severus wished he could find some way to bring this level of peace to his ward during his waking hours.

He would tell the boy. Soon. And he would pray that, for once in his miserable life, Black was right, and Harry did forgive him. Eventually, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello lovely, wonderful people. To my fellow Americans, a happy Thanksgiving to you! I hope you are all staying safe and masking and connecting however you can with your loved ones. It's not a new chapter (I really, really hope to have one out before we hit 2021), but I hope you enjoy it anyway.
> 
> As an added bonus, for anyone who might be interested, I have been putting together a playlist for my fic :) Lots of American indie folk, some rock mixed in. Do you have any song suggestions? Feel free to post in the comments!
> 
> Crime and Punishment Playlist
> 
> Renegade, by Styx
> 
> The Rooster Moans, by Iron and Wine
> 
> Monkeys Uptown, by Iron and Wine
> 
> Another Brick in the Wall, Pt. 2, by Pink Floyd
> 
> Waitin' for a Superman, by Iron and Wine
> 
> Landslide, by Fleetwood Mac
> 
> Autumn Leaves, by Ed Sheeran
> 
> Emmylou, by First Aid Kit
> 
> Upward over the Mountain, by Iron and Wine
> 
> Two Sides of Lonely, by The Lone Bellow
> 
> Little Lion Man, by Mumford and Sons
> 
> Lion's Mane, by Iron and Wine
> 
> Everyone's Looking for Home, by Sam Outlaw


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